


Taking in Strays

by PrincessDesire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Divergent Timelines, F/M, Light Bondage, M/M, Sibling Incest, Sub Dean, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2015, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 82,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4345211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessDesire/pseuds/PrincessDesire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The point of a hunt is to kill the monster. Sam Ackles knows this without being reminded by Dean, the handsome hunter he's just met, but somehow he ends up with a new pet and a new friend. Angels don't get crushes, but Chalendra began losing her grace the night that she saved Sam, taking him in as her own, and she's really more human than not these days, so it's not so strange that John Winchester, with his pure soul and dreamy bedroom eyes, makes her heart flutter. Dean thinks the step-brotherly action could be kind of hot and besides, it's only incest if you're actually related.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Abduction

**Author's Note:**

> Check out Banbury's artwork for my story: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4346021

Lawrence, Kansas – November 1983

            They whisper, the voices in his head, the remnants of his former self scattered between his ears like shards of glass impatiently awaiting bare feet. He wants to quiet them, to assure them that soon the mission will be accomplished, but he has never been able to temper them, not even before Hell when he’d been technically, if not morally, human. By the time that Azazel leans over the baby, the voices are a choir frenzied by religious devotion. He searches for signs of his master, a grand orator in the roundness of its cheeks, an indomitable dictator in the clenching of its tiny fingers, finds nothing but innocence and squirmy joy. No matter that he doesn’t see it now; it will happen, and soon.

            The mother, Mary, whose name is a poetic tribute, speaks from the nursery doorway. She assumes that the shadowy figure hovering over her baby is the father, leaves him time to perform his task.

             Just a few drops are all it takes. The baby squirms, not appreciating the taste on his lips. That will change. Someday the man that springs up from this tender fleshy seed will crave the vile concoction of elements that comprises demon blood. For now it will germinate within him, wait to be watered by more platelets, plasma, and sulfur. This one will be strong. Son of endless generations of hunters, the urge to kill and the loathing of otherness secured in his genes, practically spelled out in his DNA. This will be the one.

            The mother, realizing some wrongness to the scenario, perhaps a glimpse of the real father asleep downstairs or a connection of the flickering lights with the shadowy figure in the nursery, returns to save her baby. He can’t begrudge her the attempt, futile and misguided as it is. She operates without the knowledge that it’s too late, that since the moment of his conception, her son was fated to become something far greater than any mortal ever would, or, more immediately, that her son is now property of Azazel’s Master and she will never again know the sweet bond of holding the baby to her teat.

            Azazel has been given orders not to harm the father, but the mother, she is his to do with as he likes and he wants to watch her burn, wants to give her a taste of Hell before sending her there. With psychic arms Azazel holds her to the ceiling, slices into her belly, the womb useless to him now. The smell of blood, human and earthy, creates rapture in his mind and the voices nearly sing. When he had killed as a human, he hadn’t been able to really see the life as it drained from their bodies nor truly smell the unique scent of fear. As a demon, it is orgasmic, a feast for the senses.

            Deep within that empty pocket that had once contained Sam, Azazel places a ball of energy, psychic dynamite. It will grow exponentially, leaving him just enough time to get his master’s fragile new vessel to safety. He’s lingered too long already; the mental connection between him and his protégé has gone silent. With the demon dispatched, the Guardian will return to the nursery to check on its charge.

            It is with the highest reverence that Azazel bends down and scoops the baby into its arms. Mary, impotently secured to the ceiling like a bug on flypaper, screams. The anguish and fear in her scream is a pleasant melody to him. He vanishes from the room, her squirming child in his arms, and his smile lingering perhaps a bit longer than the rest of him like the Cheshire Cat in front of Mary’s wide open yet barely seeing eyes.

                       

            Like so many other nights, John has fallen asleep in front of the TV. The combination of comfortable recliner, comfortable robe, and comforting words of familiar celluloid faces forms an irresistible lullaby. Mary’s scream is the worst kind of alarm and he races up the stairs as his mind scrambles in sleepy confusion. He calls her name but no reply greets him.

            The nursery appears empty. He looks around, doesn’t see Mary, but checks on the baby. His panic becomes the sharpest terror as he looks into the crib and sees its empty state. His hands dive into the blankets searching pointlessly for his son. It is only when he feels the drip upon his hand that he looks up, sees what he should have seen immediately. Perhaps as punishment for the delay, he will see this exact image every night until he dies. Mary clad in white, belly sliced open wide like her eyes, pinned to the ceiling. No sooner does he see this, absorbs it but doesn’t understand it, then she bursts into flames. They come from within her, a sudden horrific explosion. The flames move like water lapping at the ceiling in waves. He calls her name from the floor of the nursery though he doesn’t remember how he got there.

            Sammy. Dean. He pulls himself off the floor, his own puppet master, and makes his way to the doorway somehow, his eyes never straying from his wife until his foot falls in the hallway. “Dean!” he calls. The minor flood of relief as he sees his eldest son is a blessing. It pulls a small amount of rational thought back into his mind, helps him to take action. “Dean, where’s Sam?”

            He despairs at the shake of shaggy blond hair. “Okay, come on, you’ve got to get out of here. Move! Outside and don’t look back!” he orders. On tiny stealthy feet Dean obeys.

            John searches in vain for his baby boy. The smoke burns his eyes as he peers quickly but thoroughly into all the rooms of the house. He calls over and over again, stupid because Sam can’t reply, but he doesn’t think that until much later. The smoke sucks at his oxygen, pulls it directly from his lungs. The heat hits like a hammer to the gut. His life is burning down around him and if he doesn’t get himself outside, he’ll be leaving that beautiful four year-old in the front yard an orphan. Dean is the only reason that he leaves.

            His timing is perfect, snatching Dean into his arms and covering him with his body as the house erupts behind them.

            Tears from the smoke and from the pain run down John’s face. He holds Dean tightly to him. Together they watch everything they love, and everything that Dean has ever known, burn.

            “Sammy…” John says. The ache in his heart is worsened one hundred fold by not knowing.

            Where is Sam? 


	2. Puppy Dog Eyes

Flint, Michigan – May 1999

            “Don’t forget that the new moon is tonight.” Sam is stuffing books into his bag but he spares a moment to throw a quick glare in Chalendra’s direction. “We will need to hunt the waheela tonight.”

            “Yeah, I got that when you reminded me last night. I’m not stupid, Chal. I don’t need to be told everything ten times.”

            She has read every book on child-rearing ever written. Many warn about the time of adolescence, speak of it as history books do periods of war. Teenagers in a state of violent physiological upheaval, they caution, are erratic in behavior, poor in judgment, and verbally aggressive. She’d read it, understood it, and deep down had believed that it would never happen to Sam. How wrong she had been. Now his eyes do not illuminate with pleasure at the sight of a white-frosted cake. His brilliant questions about how the universe works have turned into complaints about rising early on weekends. Once her voice alone was enough to move him to hug her; now every word that falls from her lips seems to anger him. The books can explain that it’s hard to raise a teenager, but they fail to convey just how truly heart-breaking it is to watch a boy turning into the man he will become.  

            Chalendra rubs her forehead. Her hand is warm from the mug of coffee from which she’s been sipping. Patience is a virtue and like all other virtues, practicing it requires much more effort than it did when she could still claim to be an angel. “You are brilliant,” she says honestly. “We just have a small window and can’t afford to miss it. The blood will be on our hands should we fail to turn up on time.”

            “Yeah, I get it,” he mumbles. He draws the backpack over his shoulders, the straps extended to accommodate his perpetually expanding back and shoulders. The bag bumps a picture frame on the dining room wall behind him. It crashes to the floor.

            He glances at the mess and then out the window. “Go,” she waves. “I’ll get it.” It is not the first and won’t be the last glass sacrificed to the god of growing boys. She would rather he be on time for school than to have him stay and clean up the mess himself, knows that he would take responsibility for the task if he had time. He leaves the house without kissing her cheek, just waves goodbye, and tosses a “thanks” her way instead.

            She frowns at the glass on the floor and sighs. To the room she says, “Adolescence.”

 

            Sam sneaks Fritos in algebra class. He chews slowly and with closed mouth, allows his saliva to moisten the crunch out of the fried corn to best muffle the sound. He also sneaks Midsummer Night’s Dream which he holds on his lap with the hand that isn’t covered in salt and grease. The play is cheesy, romantic comedy masquerading as fine literature. Sam likes it anyway. He likes most of the things he reads; his imagination makes even the mediocre ones better.

            “Daniel?” Sam looks up. The teacher frowns at him. “Save the reading for English class, okay?”

            He can’t help the huff as he puts the book back into his bag though he mutters out a “sorry,” not because he is, but because it is the respectful thing to do. He watches the leaves outside. Summer is almost here which means that soon they’ll be getting out of Michigan, hopefully never to return. He’d been cold when they’d arrived in the fall, hadn’t dreamed that by winter it would feel like his bones were hollow with the chill. He’s already suggested to Chal that they go to Texas next, a place warm and flat. No doubt by the time next spring rolls around, he’ll be burnt by Texas sun and anxious to move back north. The spring after that… that is The Spring. He’ll be eighteen by May, have his diploma in hand by June, and by July his life will have started. He will wipe from his mind any knowledge that a hunter can kill anything more dangerous than deer. He will blissfully ignore children whose eyes occasionally turn black, men that grow fur when the moon is full, and women who stay youthful with the help of infant stew. He will grow roots deeper than a sequoia someplace warm and bright.  

            Later, in the cafeteria, he overhears a conversation about one of the girls, Terry, who had been mauled by the waheela last month. He feels the guilt at his snippiness with Chalendra that morning after hearing about the sweet person that Terry had been, about her dreams to learn how to surf and to speak sign language, things that she will never have the opportunity to do now. He pushes around the cherry tomato on his plate. Sam knows it’s important, what he and Chal do, he just doesn’t always want it to be them. Yeah, he is good at it but surely there are others out there who can hunt these things, who can do the things he doesn’t want to. Hell, there’s probably someone out there who likes it.

 

            Sticks crackle underneath Dean’s boots. They sound like firecrackers, their volume heightened by the blackness of the new moon night. The danger, the dark, the cold air, they are invigorating, igniting his blood. This is where he is at his best, in the wilderness, weapon in hand, on a hunt.

            His dad speaks in a low voice. “Can you make any more damn noise, boy?”

            Dean tries not to take the criticism as insult, lightens his footsteps instead and ignores the flick at his ego. There is no room for pride on the hunt; the victims need him at his best and dad always has advice for how to be his best.

            The back of Dean’s hand brushes the bark of a birch tree. It’s scratchy but pleasant. His proximity to the tree has alerted some small creature that darts away in a mad rush of fur. Dean is alert enough that the movement of the rodent zaps his muscles, makes his hand clench tightly on his knife handle. The monsters they’re hunting, these waheela, like so many other lupine beasts, are best brought down with silver blades.  Dean prefers the things that can be brought down with a gun, loves setting his vision into the distance, finding the tiny blink of movement, and dropping it with a squeeze of his finger. Of course, these are the rarest of the things they hunt; most baddies require complex rituals and obscure mystical items, boring things that require memorization and not skill.

            John hisses briefly through his teeth, nods east. Dean follows the direction of his eyes, looks but fails to see anything. His eyesight is better than his father’s, the 20/20 of youth, but he lacks his dad’s experience, lacks that quality that makes John Winchester the best damned hunter in America. Dean, while certainly the most star-struck, isn’t the only one to think so.

            Since John is the first to spot something, he moves into a front position. Dean waits before following. These things hunt in twos and threes and he wants to have a wide view of dad’s flank.

            The ground slopes downward into a thick cluster of yellow birch trees. Just behind that Dean spots his dad’s find. There is a small mound of earth with what seems to be an entrance, a cave then, perhaps the monsters’ lair. Dean smiles. He likes the creepy figure it presents and likes more that it means they are close. There’s still the chance that it was made by another animal, even a desperate human maybe, but Dean knows his father’s spidey senses are tingling and he can count on his fingers how many times in his life his father’s been wrong on a hunt.

            A growl, coming not so far from the cave, pulls both Winchesters into action.  Dean runs at almost full speed to get to it. This is foolish in the dark and he trips not once, but twice, both times catching himself before he falls. With his stumbling around, it’s no surprise that he loses sight of his father. What is surprising is when he hears another growl from a different direction. It seems the rest of the pack is nearby. Trusting his dad to fight alone, he sets off in the direction of the new growl intent on killing the first waheela tonight and, hopefully, restoring some of his studliness after tripping like a blonde in a horror flick.

            He sees the guy first, before he sees the large slavering wolf-bear creature which shouldn’t be possible as the waheela is growling between them. Instead he sees the guy’s thin frame, a silhouette in the darkness, and something in the stance, something that emulates the creature in front of them, that draws the eye. Then Dean sees the beast, looks over the white matted fur bristled in rage, and feels that rush, the endorphins of fighting and saving, comparable only to fucking. “Run!” he yells to the guy.  

            “I’ve got it!” the guy yells back. Dean’s ears deny the words, attempt to scramble them, and come up with the same sounds.

            The waheela shows no confusion. It takes off at a full run, racing to close the distance between itself and the guy. It spares only a quick look back at Dean to make sure it’s not being followed. It is now, buddy. Dean’s legs may be slow on the uptake but once they get going, he’s moving nearly as crazy fast as the creature. “Hey!” he yells, hoping to deter it. “Over here doggy!”

            The waheela turns, obviously confused about which direction it should be taking. Its large white paws plant into the ground and its head whips back and forth between the two humans before finally lifting into the air with a howl that is part snarl and all ferocity. Dean guesses that it’s calling for backup because that’s what he would do and he hopes that his dad is taking care of this monster’s reinforcements. When the humans simultaneously begin approaching it, the waheela gets the picture that it is now prey, as unbelievable as that should be given its size and strength. It can sense the lack of fear in the posture of the one it had tracked and in the scent of the new one with the loud voice. It runs.

            Dean and the stranger give chase, bodies eventually adjacent as they leap over fallen branches and stones, dodge trees, and duck low hanging limbs. Sometimes in front and sometimes in back, Dean feels the other man’s presence, feels the way they form a braided trail behind the beast. It’s natural.

            The waheela stops in front of its cave, the pile of mud and rock and wood, just as John had guessed. Its back to the hole, it snaps at them, making its final stand here in its home court advantage. It is probably relying on the others in its pack having heard its howl, waiting for them to show up and outnumber and outmuscle the humans.

            Dean risks a look over at the strange man. This prompts the guy to look back at Dean. He’s just a kid, maybe sixteen years old, with skinny arms and shaggy hair. He’s panting too, like Dean, like the waheela, and his teeth shine bright white even without the moon. In the human’s case, though, it’s a smile. It isn’t the only thing shining. In the boy’s right hand is a combat knife. Dean needs to look back at the creature, but first, he must warn the kid. He raises his own knife.

            “Aim for the heart,” two sets of lips say in perfect sync. Dean sees his own surprise reflected in the boy’s face. Then, the smile again.

            Well, Dean hadn’t expected that.

            They face the waheela, drawing nearer. Dean looks forward to the hunt, sometimes the kill, but he is dreading this fight. Knife fighting against a wolf the size of a bear is beyond reckless into suicidal. The teenager doesn’t seem to agree; he lunges at the waheela, body coiled and fast like a bullet. Dean, destined, it seems, to be last tonight, follows suit. The waheela dodges the boy’s stab but takes Dean’s slice to its ear. Its large teeth snap at the boy who moves back like this is a dance choreographed and practiced to perfection. Dean doesn’t have time to appreciate the boy’s agility, has to look after his own skin now that the waheela’s attention is turned back to him.

            Dean and the boy are trading off sides, an attempted stab here, a jab there, and the Waheela has no way of keeping up. For a second, Dean thinks he sees the fear of inevitability quiver in its eyes and then the boy sinks his blade into the white soft fur covering its chest. The beast falls, but is not dead, not until the boy ends its misery with a quick final slip of blade across throat. Then the creature lays flat and motionless with not even a last breath shaking its mass.  

            The boy drops to the ground, his legs buckling.

            Dean can’t get over to him quickly enough, even though he’s just a few feet away. He kneels beside him and places his hand on one bony shoulder. “Hey’d he get you?” he asks, the words jumbling into one.

            The boy’s head, bent down nearly to his chest, shakes slowly. “Nah. I got him.” The boy’s face lifts and there are tears in his eyes that immediately get wiped off by the sleeve of the boy’s oversized sweatshirt. The eyes avoid Dean’s, looking at anything but Dean as he sucks back snot and wipes the evidence of tears away. “What about you?”

Dean looks down at himself. His voice sounds surprised when he says, “No. Not a scratch.” He wonders how the hell he managed that. Even with the kid’s help he should be bleeding. Then again… “You were fucking awesome,” Dean says.

            The kid smiles. “Yeah. You were kinda shit.”

            A laugh bursts into Dean’s breath, catching him as much by surprise as the boy’s cheekiness. He removes his hand from the kid’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he says. He rises back up to his feet feeling foolish for consoling a guy who has just insulted his hunting skills. He kicks the boy’s boot. “I’m Dean.”

            “Sam,” says Sam. He follows Dean’s lead, rising to his feet, and then a look flashes across his face and Dean thinks maybe the kid is gonna faint. Instead, he bites his lip before saying, hurriedly, “Shit. Daniel.” Then, when Dean looks at him, he adds pleadingly, “Please, I go by Daniel here. No one’s supposed to know me as Sam.”

            Mysterious, this request, but considering the assistance taking on the waheela Dean doesn’t see a reason not to be accommodating. “Alright Secret Agent Daniel.” He offers a hand to Sam.

            Sam has a firm handshake. Dean could have guessed that he would.

            “Dean!” John’s voice cries out.

            “By the lair!” Dean yells in response. “One of ‘em dead!”

            Sam asks, “Your dad?”

            Dean’s forgotten that Sam doesn’t know that John is there. The ease with which they’d worked together to take down the waheela is still binding them, the trust of the trenches. He nods in response to Sam’s question, then pulls a rag from his jacket and wipes the blood off his knife. He’ll do a better job cleaning it off back at the hotel.

            Sam watches Dean’s actions but makes no move to emulate them. His knife hangs loosely in his hand, blood tarnishing the formerly shiny blade. “Yeah, my mom is around too.”

            “Your mom?” Dean’s stomach drops. Why are they just standing around if Sam’s mom is in danger? He berates himself for making small talk while someone’s life is at stake. These are pack animals. His dad can handle himself, but not civilians!

            “Only one?” booms John. He smiles at them from the top of the hill that they had originally come down. Underneath his arm is a woman, twentyish, blonde, brandishing a long slender knife unlike any Dean has seen before. She appears to be a makeshift crutch for John. Even in the dark Dean can see blood on his father’s leg, a black circle on the knee of his jeans. “We managed two.”

            “You’re hunters?” Dean asks Sam. It’s a stupid question because the answer is obvious. The way the kid can fight, his complete lack of fear against such a beast, these are more than hints that Sam is a hunter, they are statements written in bold. Dean wonders if it is just Sam’s age that made him seem too innocent for the actions of a hunter, the actions that Dean himself had seen Sam carry out, dispatching the giant wolf/bear far more easily than he could do. He has been underestimating Sam, judging him based on his build or his age or the tears, but wrong in whatever assessment his mind had made.

            Sam doesn’t reply. Instead, he yells to the woman, “Do you think there’s more?”

            The woman with the odd knife shakes her head. “I believe that they’d have showed up when that one,” here she nods down at them and their kill, “howled.”

            Dean worries as he notes how much weight his dad puts on the woman. They get banged up plenty, all hunters do, but he wouldn’t be relying as much on her if he could help it. “How bad you hurt?” he asks, voice aching to attempt nonchalance.

            “Oh, nothing ten stitches and a fifth of scotch can’t help,” jokes John, his face unguarded, happy.

            Dean knows his father better than anyone alive, knows his habits and his dislikes and his mannerisms, has adopted a few of them for himself over the years. The only nights that John Winchester can sleep a proper six hour sleep are the nights when they have successfully completed a hunt. They don’t make him happy, because he’s always pissed that whatever they were hunting wasn’t the demon that killed mom and took his baby brother, Sam. But, they do let him rest because he has done something. John can take comfort in knowing that he’s stopped another dad from having to raise a child alone. It lightens the burden but doesn’t alleviate it. So, Dean knows immediately that this playful mood is more than a reaction to the end of a hunt, knows that it is in fact due to the proximity of the woman with the muscular arms and the tight jeans and tank top, Sam’s mom.

            Dean doesn’t want to know. As far as he’s concerned, his dad can continue being an asexual vengeance-obsessed drifter. He wants no part in witnessing dad crushing on some MILF with a weird toothpick knife and a ridiculously talented fighter son.

            “So, are we done here then?” he asks his father.

            John ignores the petulant tone in Dean’s voice. “Me and Chalendra here are; she’s agreed to assist me back to my truck. You two should check out their lair, make sure we don’t leave any stragglers.”

             If the woman helps John to his truck then she won’t be digging around inside the lair possibly tangling with a stray waheela. This is the line of reasoning that Dean hopes his father is using and not something like, ‘let the kids deal with it while I put the moves on this babe.” He’s also worried that maybe the leg fared worse than his dad is letting on, but if he was to ask something along the lines of “you sure you’re not too hurt?” his dad would kick his ass and rightfully so.

            “Yeah, we can do that.” Dean says and adds, “And another quick scout of the area.”  John used to get on his case for not being properly thorough following a hunt, so he’s made a concentrated effort to correct the issue in an exaggerated way that John can see.

            “Right,” John says.

            Parents gone, limping off to the truck, Dean turns to Sam and warns “My dad is into your mom so please tell me she’s a lesbian because my imagination really doesn’t want to go there.” He pulls a flashlight out of his coat; it’s small, doesn’t weigh him down on chases, but powerful, illuminating the waheela lair. Its entrance is about two feet high. If they are going to take a look, they’ll need to crawl into it, leaving their heads exposed to any jaws or claws. If there is still a waheela there, it’s been left behind from the hunt meaning that it could be injured; an injured monster could be just as dangerous as a healthy one, especially when cornered.

            “I don’t think so,” says Sam who appears to be doing a complicated math problem in his head. “Did your dad introduce her as Chalendra?”

            ‘That’s what I heard. Kind of a weird name.” He picks up a fist-sized stone. “Why, is she a secret agent too?”

            Sam shakes his head in wonderment, not in response to Dean’s joke. “She’s been going by Sylvia here. I don’t know why she gave him her real name.”

            Dean flips the stone in the air underhand, catches it overhand. The weight and smoothness feels good in his hand, one of man’s earliest weapons. “Maybe she’s into my dad too.”

            Sam shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She’s never really been into anyone before.”

            Dean snorts. “Yeah, everyone thinks their folks are virgins.” He hurls the stone into the makeshift cave. A tiny yelp sounds from the darkness followed by shuffling. It doesn’t sound like a waheela, more like a human. Dean’s knife is in hand in case he’s wrong but the sound had been small, weak. Intuition nips him, playfully bites his good mood. “Damn.”

            Dean takes point, crawling on hands and knees towards the hole, his light shining into the dirt and leaves. “Careful,” Sam warns pointlessly.

            After a few seconds, he calls, “Sam, come here.”

            Dean doesn’t hear Sam move, not even with the night as still as it is, but he feels him, sees him once he squats down beside him, his attention focused like a deer that thinks it has heard a wolf.

            The beam of light reveals a puppy or a cub, whatever the waheela offspring are called. Its fur is dirt-covered and its eyes huge, scared. It whimpers and shakes, small jaws opening slightly and closing again, unable to keep still. It is pressed completely to the back wall of the dugout.

            “Oh god, oh god.” The mantra starts low from Sam, exhales of distress, but they grow louder. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.” He’s on his feet pacing, swirling back and forth.

            Dean sits back, ass on his ankles, watches Sam have his freak out and feels calmed by it, as though Sam is working out the horror of the revelation for both of them. This is the worst part of the job, always. He’d rather get thrown into a wall by a poltergeist, rather read through translations of ancient Sumerian texts than to have to hurt or kill an innocent.

            “That’s why it ran back here! Fuck, Dean, it was protecting the young!” The tears that Sam had managed to tuck away unravel themselves. Sam pulls his hair, pushes it back over his head, wipes at tears, stares at the lair and into the trees as though they have an answer for this awful situation they are in, and then starts again, unable to handle how he is feeling, like his pain is literally too big for his body.

            Dean rises. “Hey! Calm the hell down!” he says to Sam who looks so much younger than he had minutes before. Dean hates the words as he says them, recognizes the tough love voice of his father. There are many traits of his father’s that Dean Winchester strives to emulate. The no-nonsense anger when Dean expresses emotions on a hunt is not one. He’s hoped to avoid using it even if, god-forbid, he ever spawns puppies of his own. When John does that, dismisses Dean’s feelings, gets angry that his son is not just a mindless killing machine, it makes Dean feel unloved by his father, like all the effort that he gives on a daily basis amounts to nothing because he is failing at this one critical aspect.

            Dean grabs the teen by the shoulders and, surprising both parties, wraps his arms loosely but heavily over the thin frame. “You didn’t know.”

            The boy doesn’t resist but his body is tense and uncertain.

            Dean doesn’t know how long to keep this touching thing up. He feels awkward when the female vics that they rescue want to hug him. It’s nice when they do, especially the feel of their breasts against his chest and also the awesome heroic feeling, but it makes him feel guilty, like they think they owe him. He doesn’t want anyone touching him because they feel obligated to do it. Now he’s willingly hugging this strange deadly teary boy and he doesn’t know if it will work to calm him down or just result in a swift punch to the gut.

            Sam’s body slackens, hugs back in the same loose, heavy way. He hears Sam’s nose as it works to keep snot off Dean’s jacket. They’re the same height and with his head tilted down, the wet nose is really close to the leather. “I won’t kill it,” he whispers resolutely.

            “You won’t have to,” says Dean. “I got this.”

Sam looks at him. Dean had left the flashlight on the ground facing into the hole, abandoned it there to comfort Sam. By its indirect light he can see Sam’s face. Dean can see the revulsion in Sam’s dark eyes. “You’re going to kill a puppy?”

            “That puppy is gonna grow into a waheela. It’s gonna kill people just like its mommy and daddy every time the moon goes out. Sam, if we don’t kill it, it’s gonna leave behind a bunch of dead bodies that’ll be on our hands.”

            He’s said the wrong thing, can tell even before Sam shoves him away, before he starts yelling, sees it in the narrowing of Sam’s eyes and the tightness of his lips. Dean wants to take it back, whichever thing that triggered the anger.

            “Why is it on _our_ hands? Why can’t we hold the things that kill responsible? I didn’t kill Terry Donnely, the waheela did, so why is it that her blood is on my hands, on yours, on Chalendra’s?” Sam’s tears are rain, the hiccups thunder. Dean has no idea how to stop the storm. He stares at Sam helplessly; he has no answers. Saying that it’s just the way things are seems too cruel.

            The puppy whimpers and Sam’s arms wrap around himself tightly.

            “It hasn’t done anything wrong.” His voice is as whiny as the puppy.

            “Not yet,” says Dean.

            “Yeah, not yet, maybe not ever, but you don’t want to give it the chance.”

            Dean doesn’t understand why Sam is acting like it’s Dean’s fault. He doesn’t want to kill the damn puppy. It’s bad enough that they took out its dad, carcass laying not that far from where they’re standing around arguing about killing its baby. Dean rubs his face with his blade-free hand; it feels as though his skull is too big for his forehead. They can’t just stand and argue about this. His dad is injured, maybe bleeding all over his truck, and Dean knows that if they take too long, John will be walking back, hurt or not, to check on them. He doesn’t want to see the look of disappointment on his dad’s face when his son has trouble doing this one simple awful task. He steps towards the lair.

            “No!” cries Sam. Dean feels the strength in the fingers that wrap around his wrist, the one with the knife.

            He sees the plea, hell, he _feels_ the plea, can practically hear it resounding in his head. Sam’s eyes are wide and round, jaw clenched so tightly that his cheeks protrude on the sides, and his lips are pressed tightly together, wordlessly begging.

            The kid gives better puppy dogs eyes than the waheela cub!

            Dean wants to slap the kid, not hard but enough to knock some sense into him. He rubs his hand around the skin of his face until it feels like when he pulls his hand back it will be stuck that way, distorted like a cartoon character.

            “Fine, if you wanna save that thing, we’ve gotta move fast cause my dad’s gonna know something’s up if we take much longer.” He can’t believe what he’s saying; then the joy of comprehension and relief enters Sam’s eyes and Dean knows at least _why_ he’s saying it. “We are not just leaving it here though so you’d better find a cage for that thing cause regardless of what **you** think, it will get big and it will get mean. Waheelas are like chicks, they have to do their monthly blood lust thing, get it out of their systems, okay?”

            Sam is listening, nodding, and looking completely overwhelmed. Dean can’t say he blames him for that. John will have Dean’s ass if he finds out and Dean figures that if Sam’s mom is a hunter, she’ll probably feel the same way.

            “My dad _never_ sees it, got it?” Sam nods. “This is so fucking stupid.”

            Dean strips off his leather jacket. He loves his jacket, doesn’t want some stupid wolf baby to puncture holes in it but he wants those holes in Sam even less. He tosses it to Sam who looks at the brown leather questioningly. “It’s your pet; you get it,” snaps Dean. Normally Dean would rather put himself on the line than someone he doesn’t know but his days of underestimating Sam’s abilities are over. Also, it _is_ just a puppy, waheela or not.

            Sam approaches the hole carefully. Dean can hear Sam speaking to the pup, soothing it. In the end, it doesn’t matter how much baby talk Sam uses, the thing is still a wild creature and it nips and yips and fights as Sam sacks it with the jacket. The struggle is short and soon they have their contraband pooch.

            Dean briefs Sam as they make their way back to their folks. “Dad’s got a Sierra Grande. My baby’s the Impala, black and real sexy. You’re going to take my keys and toss that mutt in the back trunk and you’re gonna act like you’re just putting away my gear.” He passes his keys, tries not to think about how much trust he’s placing in this stranger, then his knife and flashlight to Sam who pockets the keys but places the other items atop the wriggling, whimpering jacket. Sam makes juggling all those things look easy. “And try to shut it up!” he snaps. To himself he mutters, “Dad’s gonna kill me,” adds, “I probably deserve it too, letting myself get roped into this stupid stuff. I’m a hunter dammit, not a freakin’ dog catcher.” He’s so busy grouching that he doesn’t notice Sam smiling even as he wrestles the puppy and Dean’s gear while walking the dark trail behind him.

            When they get to the clearing where the Winchesters have parked, Dean is encouraged by the layout of the scene. Sam’s mom is sitting in the truck with John; they won’t immediately see the bundle in Sam’s arms. Also, the vehicles are parked driver’s side to driver’s side, meaning that his dad’s line of sight will be blocked by car and Dean, shouldn’t even be able to see the trunk. If John had to get hurt on this hunt, he’s at least glad that it’s his dad’s leg, anything that’ll keep him sitting in the truck.

            Sam’s mom gets out of the truck. In response, Dean opens his arms wide attempting to make his body as large as possible. Sam positively skulks behind him. “No stragglers!” he announces loudly.

            Sam’s mom has her hands clasped behind her. She surprises Dean by not immediately running to Sam to check him for wounds; that fear of his was unfounded. All her attention is on Dean who is now only feet away from her, the best to block her vision. She studies him, her posture reminding Dean of a scientist hovering over a microscope. He’s unsure what she can see just by John’s overhead light alone. Still, her eyes appear to memorize his hair, eyes, nose, mouth, and chin, making some kind of evaluation, though of what he is uncertain. Dean puts his weight on his left leg and then his right, nervousness forcing the movement.

            Dean hears Baby’s trunk open.

            “Dean Winchester, it is so nice to meet you!” She really seems to mean it, her eyes bright with a happiness that he doesn’t understand. “I am Chalendra.”

            He hears Sam close the trunk and he offers her his hand hoping it isn’t too sweaty. Rather than shake it, she grabs it, uses it to yank him to her and forces a bear hug upon him. She is tall like Sam and strong too but her frame isn’t wiry like Sam’s; her muscles are pronounced, densely clustered, and she has curves where Sam has angles. Her hug has none of the hesitancy or stiffness that Sam’s had, is strong and gentle and uninhibited. For just a second, held tightly in Chalendra’s embrace, Dean thinks of his mother. Then he hears the muffled yip of trunk puppy.

            “Well,” he says pulling out of the hug. He raises his voice. “We should probably get dad back to the hotel, get him patched up.” He claps his hands as though enthusiastic to mask the sound of scratching claws. It takes the willpower of a god not to grab the hairball from the trunk and throw it off a cliff to save Baby from getting mauled. The sooner that he can get it out of there, the better for all involved.

            “Well, John, your father,” she adds as though he might be confused about who John is. “Got a bad scratch on his right leg and forcing him to drive with it seems unnecessary, so I believe our best option is for Sam or me to drive his truck to your hotel.”

            Sam joins them, hovering just behind Dean. “You can drive his truck, I’ll take the Ram.”

            Chalendra nods; she’d expected that choice. “And you’re uninjured?”

            Dean thinks she sounds kind of robotic, asks himself who actually uses the word uninjured. It doesn’t blend well with the hugging she’d just been doing. He wonders if maybe she just goes into a mode when hunting and then shuts it off really fast; he’s known his share of hunters that do that. Not all hunters are like Dean who feels like himself the most when he’s taking out baddies.

            “It’s all waheela blood,” Sam assures her.

            She smiles.

            “What about you, Son?” John’s gruff voice calls from the inside of the cab. He leans over so that he can visually confirm whatever Dean tells him. Dean feels as though the subterfuge is written all over his face, a flashing neon sign that reads “There’s a baby monster in my trunk” and then a smaller sign beneath that reading, “The bleeding heart kid made me do it.”

            “Danny here did most of the work.” Dean has no problem giving credit where it’s due; Sam kicked a lot of ass back at the waheela lair and there was no way that he’d have gotten out unscathed if it wasn’t for Sam.

            “Danny?” asks John.

            Chalendra speaks up. “That’s Sam’s civilian name. But there shouldn’t be formalities between hunters.”

            “Since when?” Sam mutters, voice sulky. Dean peers back over his shoulder at the teen’s embarrassed, confused face. It makes Dean smile. If he’d been that way at Sam’s age, his dad would’ve whopped the back of his head.

“          Winchester men demand exception,” Dean says, wiggling his eyebrows at Sam. He feels cocky now, wants to rib Sam about what he sees as confirmation that Sam’s mom is into his dad. Sam glares at him and it feels good, like sun on bare skin. Dean turns back to Chalendra, unabashed grin and all. “So, it’s Sam then?”

            She nods. “Sam Ackles.”

            Dean hasn’t heard the scratch of the puppy for a bit, thinks maybe it has settled down and found the trunk of the Impala to be a better cave than the one it’d just left. Still, he wants to put some distance between his dad and Sam and their secret. Sam seems to have the same idea because he asks his mother for the keys then. Everyone breaks into movement, including John who scoots over to the passenger seat of his own truck, a strange sight for Dean who is not used to seeing his dad relinquish control.

            “Where are you parked?” Dean asks Chalendra before she shuts the driver’s side door.

            “Quarter of a mile, maybe a half, Sam can find it.” When the engine of the truck roars, Dean exhales loudly. Watching it drive away restores some of the years to his life that he lost when Sam put the dog into Baby’s trunk.

            The night is quiet again, trees moving with only the slightest breeze, each slight shift of his weight crunching the dirt in between the traction of his boots. He looks at Sam. “This is so stupid.” Sam doesn’t answer him perhaps because he can’t argue the point. “Why is your mom so weird?”

            “Chal’s not weird.”

            “And why don’t you call her mom?” Dean pulls open the door of the Impala, tries not to think about the potential state of his jacket in the trunk. Sam crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. Dean, of all people, knows how much it hurts to be called out on not having a nuclear family, and he feels immediately guilty. “So what are we doing with Cujo?”

            This is more of the type of conversation that Sam is prepared for. “I don’t think my mom would notice it in the shed. At least, not for a while. Can we get it over to my house?”

            “Sure,” says Dean. They’re expected at the hotel but that doesn’t mean that they can’t make a detour. “How far away from the Casa de Sueño is your place?”

            Sam’s mouth corners tweak downwards, reminds Dean a bit of the creepy singing fish that some bars have on their walls. “Ten minute drive, max.”

            “Sounds good, but we make this quick. I don’t want to interrupt our parents doing any freaky horizontal mambo.”

             Sam walks off, not saying another word.


	3. Stashing the Evidence

           The Chlorhexidine, pinkish red, swirls down the tub drain and mixes with his blood, becomes pure red, leaves behind the sting of disinfection. John doesn’t wince, might’ve if he’d been alone in his cleaning, but Chalendra is there somehow managing to look authoritative and dignified while sitting on the toilet, lid down, of course. She’s holding the sizable box of one of his first aid kits in her lap. She waits with gauze in hand, watches him with a nearly professional concern, like a nurse would, a nurse with defined deltoids. It’d been too cold in the woods for her tank top, not that he’d complain, but he figures it’s probably more comfortable temperature-wise for her now here in the hotel room. It’s actually too warm; he’s removed his flannel and not just to keep the blood off it. Sometimes wounds make you cold, sometimes they make you hot, depending on where and how deep it is and how much food and rest you’ve been getting.  

            It’s not as bad as he’d thought it might be, no stitches, and he’d rather have a scratch than a bite any day.

            Chalendra passes him the gauze, timing perfect. He dabs at the leaking fluids before reaching out for the antibacterial ointment and then it’s time for the gauze that he will tape the wound up with. She’s ready again. “You’re good at this.”

            “Handing you supplies?” she asks, her head quirks to the side.

            John chuckles. “Took Dean a while to learn when to hand me what. Wasn’t his fault. He’d just get scared to see me bleeding.” She smiles at him. “Of course, he was a little man then.”

            “What was Dean like as a child?” she asks.

            He doesn’t feel that the question is just out of politeness but that she actually wants to know. Giving free rein for a parent to reminisce about children is a dangerous offering. It’s not often that John is given the chance and it warms him to take it. “I could tell right away that Dean was gonna be a good man, even when he was little. He cares so much about others, always wants to make sure that they’re safe. He wasn’t all that nervous energy so many kids are. He could sit there and focus on something, like when I taught him how to clean a gun. He never got bored and started futzing with the TV. He’d just do the job because he knew it was important. He’s good at setting his priorities.”

            All the while that John talks, he makes sure the bandages are dry, tightens them down. Assured that they’re secure, he looks up at Chalendra, embarrassed as he realizes how heartfelt he’d been while distracted with the task.

            “And when he isn’t hunting? What does he like to do?” she asks.

            John exhales. “Ah, the same things that any twenty year-old wants to do. You know, women, cars, that sort of thing.” She looks almost disappointed, so he adds, “He likes to eat.”

            She nods, enthusiastic. “Eating is enjoyable; I can understand that interest.”

            He laughs. “Well, I think I should probably get some pants on.” He’s comfortable enough in his boxer briefs, a small wonder for having just met the woman, but he’d like to at least put forth some effort for propriety’s sake.

            Chalendra closes the first aid kit. “Don’t feel the need to dress for my sake. I am comfortable with the male form and don’t feel threatened by your exposed legs.”

            It’s such a strange thing to say and such a strange way to say it that again, as he had so many times already this evening, John finds himself charmed by her. He can’t help but to laugh again though he feels self-consciously girlish laughing at everything she says. “Glad you’re not scared off by my hairy ankles.”

            She studies him for a second and then jokes, “I’ve faced my share of sasquatches.”

            Together, John trying desperately not to laugh again, they make their way to the bed closest to the bathroom. He does wince when he sets down harder on the bed than he meant to and his knee is forced into a straight position. It’s going to be a lot tenderer in the morning. For now it’s pulsing a bit but the pain is completely manageable. He pulls some of the stiff white-cased pillows behind his back and props himself up. It’s easier to have this hurt leg bent so he moves that off the bed but keeps his other straight on it. It looks a little awkward and, considering how he’s still in his underwear, a bit skeezy. He trades one of the pillows, back comfort for crotch covering, and if he looks as silly as a teen hiding an erection with a textbook, at least Chalendra doesn’t mention it.

The room is decorated in different shades of browns and greens, probably to best emulate the forest outside it. Chalendra’s green tank top matches well, like camouflage. As all hotel rooms, the TV is set up as the main focal point. It’s strange considering how little attention he usually ends up paying attention to the electronic hypnotist these days; Dean is far more likely to watch it. John prefers books, likes imagining himself as one of the characters if it’s a fiction book, and if it’s a non-fiction, losing himself in the wealth of information that he can pull from it. He occasionally entertains the thought of writing something himself, but talks himself out of it, makes himself feel silly for thinking it.

            Not wanting to be rude, but not as eager as she, he asks, “So, what is Sam like?” It hurts to say the name, makes the void in his heart ache. It doesn’t help that his Sam would be about the same age as Chalendra’s now, is, if he’s still alive somewhere, the hope that keeps John going, that keeps him searching and fighting, adding more and more miles to his truck’s odometer and more scars to his flesh.

            She sits next to him on the bed, far enough away that the movement won’t jostle John’s leg or maybe so she isn’t pressed up to the strange guy in his underwear. “Before or after adolescence?” she asks after a loud put out sigh.

            “Ah,” he says as though he has any idea. Dean was such a good teenager, not that he’d admit that to Dean himself, that John had never fully understood the big deal that parents made of the dreaded adolescence. “Before.”

            Her eyes sparkle as she speaks and he notices that like her shirt, her eyes match the room, its browns. John isn’t sure why he felt so immediately comfortable with this woman. It’s almost like the old cliché, feels like he’s met her before. It isn’t like him to wax romantic, but as he’s fairly sure she isn’t telepathic, it doesn’t do any harm to admire her voice’s cadence, her commanding presence.

            “Sam brought home animals: dogs, toads, raccoons, until he realized that he couldn’t keep them when we moved, that he would always have to part with them. He just had so much love in his heart for everything. We discovered the world together… that’s how it felt. Like I could know the Earth and its inhabitants through this one small soul, look at it from his eyes. He would draw everything he saw and he was only bad for the first few years, then the pictures started to look like the things he was copying like he was pushing past the Theory of Forms.” John has no idea what she means but listens attentively. “He drew me often because he loved me.”

            “I’m sure he still does.”

            Chalendra jerks as though she had forgotten that he was there, which might be the case. “Oh, yes. The books assure me that he does love me but he is dealing with the fluctuations of hormones that will complete his growth cycle.” Again, strangely explained, and John is staring at her, knows it but can’t help it. If he’d had any experience with aliens in his supernatural missions, he’d suspect that she is one.

            “So, now, what is he like now?”

            Her face changes and so does her posture, hands wringing in worry. “He’s angry all the time. Hates hunting, acts as though he hates me, sleeps any time that he can get away with it. He doesn’t bring home animals and if he draws, he doesn’t show them to me. He used to chatter incessantly, now it’s one word answers. I miss hearing his ideas of the universe.”

            John feels sad for her and yet grateful that he hasn’t had to go through that with Dean. Dean’s always been so solid, so eager to help his father find Mary’s killer and, hopefully, his kidnapped baby brother. He never felt like Dean hated him, not even during their worst arguments, a rare but inevitable occurrence when living in such close quarters with someone.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out a hand to touch hers.

            She looks down at the gesture curiously. That’s all he sees in the way she looks at the hand, like she doesn’t know what it is and why it’s there. Then she looks up at him and smiles. “I appreciate your empathy. I am glad to have met you both.”

            He wonders then if he should be trying to kiss her, wonders if he has time to try. “Think the boys have defected?” he asks.

            Chalendra laughs. It brightens the room.

            “They have been gone awhile,” says John, defending what he worries she’s seeing as over-protectiveness. “I know Sam had to walk back to your car, but still… They’d better not be joyriding.”

            Her voice is unworried, confident. “They are safe together. I hope you are right and that they are taking this opportunity to get to know each other.”

            John would be pissed if Dean was goofing off with the teenager instead of checking in at the hotel like he was supposed to. Or at least, he would be somewhat pissed, but there is still that thought flicking at the back of his mind wondering if it’s a bad idea for a guy in his underwear to try and kiss a woman he’s known for an hour, a woman that could leave him more injured than the waheela had.

 

            “Son of a bitch!” cries Dean. “It bit me!”

            Dean is too fucking cute wrestling with the scared, angry fluff that is trapped in the bag of his jacket. Petulant: a word that Chal often uses to describe Sam, seems to fit Dean’s current mood. For all he knows, that’s how Dean usually is, not that he has a lot to go on, since they only just met. Sam hopes that the other hunter isn’t judging him based on how he’s acted tonight. In the short hour or so that he’s known Dean, Sam has cried in front of him, twice, once nearly sliming the poor guy’s jacket, and begged like a little kid for Dean to spare a puppy’s life, after, of course, having killed the puppy’s mom himself with a silver blade across the throat. God, what an impression he must have made on him!

            The jacket, fine brown leather, wriggles constantly and Dean tries to examine his hand in the night. It’s not as dark here in town, but it’s not exactly bright either. Apparently he isn’t too badly hurt since he puts his hand back to work at keeping the waheela in the coat. Sam would have been very surprised if he was, since the critter is just a baby.

            “Just be glad waheela aren’t venomous,” teases Sam. He can’t help his cheery mood, the relief that he felt when Dean acquiesced had lifted so much of the burden of guilt, the soul-crushing realization of what he’d done, that he’s felt since they found the waheela cub that he wants to wrap his arms around Dean (again) and set off babbling words of gratitude. Instead, he’s trying to pull off the smooth Fonz-like coolness that Dean wears, but the remaining puffiness of his eyes and profuse nasal drip are insurmountable impediments.

            Dean doesn’t spare a glare for Sam’s joke, merely snaps, “Shut up and point me to the damn shed.”

            Sam leads them across the small yard. Their Michigan house is quaint, a word often used by realtors and landlords to replace “tiny,” but it’s true enough. Despite how Sam feels about the state of Michigan, its weather in particular, he doesn’t have any complaints about the house which has felt homier to him than any of the places that he and Chal have stayed at in recent memory. Its roof is pointy like those little churches that spring up in small towns and it has plenty of windows which they both like since neither is particularly private, hunter lifestyle excepted. He isn’t overly concerned about the mailman catching him eating cereal in his underwear and Chal loves watching the birds, or even the occasional daredevil squirrel, plucking seeds from the bird feeder. Sam suspects that Chal would be fine if the house didn’t have walls at all, just something to prop up the roof. She doesn’t get cold like he does, doesn’t feel small and helpless, like a kitten abandoned in an alley, when the snow piles high on the lawn.

            He hears Dean grumbling behind him. “It better not have peed on anything.”

            Sam opens the small metal gate, providing an “after you” gesture to the other hunter. The floodlight kicks on as soon as he does and both of them are blinded, Dean cursing. Sam recovers faster, knowing his way around, not that there is much to know since it’s not so much a backyard as it is a rural alley, the back of the house where the trash truck maneuvers every Tuesday morning. He turns the combination lock, 28-36-15, and unhooks it from the metal loop. The puppy is still fighting, scared little whimpers coming from the jacket as Sam steps inside the shed. It’s a 10x12 galvanized steel shed. They always have a shed; sometimes they take it apart and rebuild it at the new place, but usually they just buy a new one, the effort worth more than the cost, plus there is always some oxidization on the bottom where rain and snow have started to taint it, and Chal hates signs of aging on things. Sam would suspect that she is projecting her own insecurities, but Chal looks as young and vibrant as when he was a kid.

            Sam pulls the chain for the naked light bulb. Lawnmower, flower pots, boxes – empty and full, tools, the normal shed inventory clutters up the left side of the shed bursting over to the right side a bit as well. Spell components, weapons, ammunition, crosses of every faith, sealed ancient boxes, lemonade pitchers decorated with yellow lemons and filled with holy water, and sharply honed wooden stakes fill the right side, _Sam’s_ normal shed inventory. A red devil’s trap, chunky with paint from being freshened up time and again and a line of salt serve as the shed’s welcome mat.

            Sam self-consciously looks at Dean, can see approval in his eyes. Sam relaxes. “We’ll have to put up some of the herbs, make sure it doesn’t eat any, but it should be fine here.”

            “What makes you think your mom won’t notice Cujo in here?” Dean juts a chin, hands too full to use them for the gesture, at the metaphysical inventory. “Isn’t she gonna put some stuff back after the hunt?”

            “The equipment she uses the most she keeps in her room, so she doesn’t have to come out to the shed for it. I doubt she grabbed anything special just for a waheela.”

            It isn’t that mentioning the waheela reminds Sam of the bundle in Dean’s arms because there is no forgetting it, not with the noise it’s making, but it does provide a good segue to worrying about the snagged creature. He’d cut his tongue out rather than say it to Dean, but the broken-hearted scared sounds of the puppy are killing him. His arms ache to hold the baby monster until it calms, to use his over-sized callused hands to stroke its fur until it stops shaking. He uses one of those hands now to shut the shed door behind Dean, trapping the scent of musty metal, earth, and aging herbs in and leaving out any sensory clues about the world outside the safe-feeling chamber.

            “You want me to just set it down?” Dean looks uncertain. “Don’t you have a cage or something?”

            Sam doesn’t share Dean’s reluctance. He’s so eager to get the puppy set up in its new home, as temporary as Sam’s, to let the poor orphan know that it is safe.

            Rather than respond verbally, Sam reaches for the jacket, unravels the top. The puppy’s whimper turns to the least menacing growl the world has known. The waheela is white somewhere underneath the dirt, almost like a husky but its snout is wide and ursine, ends in a smudge of a nose. Its ears are round, not pointed. Its eyes are nuggets of rose quartz flecked with hematite. Its teeth, which the waheela displays in abundance, are small but sharp, carnivore’s canines and incisors. One day the waheela will be threatening, scary even, but today is not that day.

            Sam shushes it, coos at it in pointless gibberish and baby talk as he reaches for it.

            Softly, so as to not spook it, Dean warns, “Dude, I wouldn’t. Cujo’s got some damn sharp teeth.”

            Sam must be doing something right because, while not calm in the least, the puppy has ceased growling. Rather than let Dean see him get nipped, almost but not quite worth the opportunity to feel the soft fur, Sam waits as Dean sets the jacket with its adorable terrified contents down on the floor of the shed.             

            The puppy shoots out, a furry white cannonball, its nails scratching a cacophony on the metal floor, diving into a hole in the clutter on the more mundane side of the shed. Something, a wood plank, Sam guesses from the sound, clatters to the floor.

            Sam smiles at Dean. “I don’t think it likes your jacket.”

            A quirk tugs the corner of Dean’s mouth upwards. “In that case, Cujo is definitely not female.” He retrieves his jacket, pushes his nose to the leather, pulls back with a grimace. “Well, no pee at least.” With how scared the puppy was, the jacket got off lucky. “Still smells like ass.”

            “I doubt that’s from the dog,” snarks Sam.

            “You’ve got a smart mouth on you, don’t you Sasquatch?” Dean’s words could be cutting, but they aren’t, sharpness dulled by a levity of voice and a camaraderie of spirit. He’s playing back. It only confirms what Sam had already realized seconds after they met; he likes Dean.

            They look to the area of the shed that now contains a small monster. Sam slaps Dean’s arm lightly. “Come on, we should get back to the hotel. It needs a chance to adjust anyway.”

            “You think I’m worried about how the damn thing feels?”

            Sam locks up the shed behind them. He doesn’t know if Dean cares about the waheela, but he’d cared enough about Sam’s feelings to leave it alive. As a fellow hunter, he gets how big of a deal the gesture is, cherishes its warmth. Dean leads the way back to their vehicles; it is not the last time that Sam will follow him.

 

            Chalendra’s fall from Heaven was less like a plummeting aircraft and more like a confused autumn leaf buffeted by strong winds. Her grace had become weaker and weaker as her identification with God’s favored creations grew stronger. She can’t look back and think, “Ah, that is when I became human” partially because she doesn’t know and partially because she doesn’t think she has yet, not fully, though that may be faith rather than fact. Nearly sixteen years she’s spent as Sam’s guardian, the last seven she’s been, angelically speaking, powerless. Sam was nine when he caught chicken pox. He lay in bed burning with fever, covered with rubbery itchy nipple-like bumps, and she had pressed her hand to his damp forehead and completely failed to heal him. It was one of the worst days of her divinely long life. She’d felt vulnerable when she lost her power of conjuration, unable to summon even a single blanket for Sam to cope better with winter, she’d been frustrated when she’d lost her ability to read human thoughts and emotions, and she’d been heart-broken when she’d lost her ability to fly, but nothing had affected her as much as not being able to stop the disease from ravaging Sam, her charge, the reason for her earthly existence; it had been the blackest day.

            She’s a hybrid now, too often surprised and delighted by things like nesting birds and telephones, and too slow to empathize to be considered human, yet she can’t answer prayers or travel to the outer reaches of the universe, exploring its wonders like a tourist lost in the Louvre. She has adapted to her life on the small blue planet, but it still isn’t home.

            So when Sam’s father, the kind, troubled human to whom Sam owes half of his very existence presses his lips to hers, she berates herself for not having learned this core aspect of humanity, worries that he will feel her inexperience. She’s embarrassed at her duality and she pushes her hands against him, moving him away, even as a terrifically pleasurable knot curls in her belly and shivers down her spine. She wants to keep the sharp bristles of his chin hair against her own smooth chin, wants to join their lips and tongues and saliva, but this is John Winchester, a figure as iconic to Chalendra as Jesus and she doesn’t want to screw everything up, his opportunity to know his lost son, because she has failed to prepare.

            John apologizes, mistaking the intent behind her refusal. “I’m so sorry,” he says, his hand comes up to rub at his stubble, a nervous tic. He leans his upper torso back unaware that her head is screaming for him to stay. He looks so young when embarrassed, like Sam’s brother but with more grey. “I think I misread something there. I… I’m an idiot. Sorry, Chalendra.”

            She loves her name on his lips and the soft vulnerability in his eyes. Before she is aware of the impulse, she recovers the physical distance. Her body lunges towards him, both fists digging into the mattress to support her weight as she leans into him, presses her chapped lips to his. It’s an awkward position and when he raises his hands into her hair, cups just under her ear, it’s the best position ever.

            He opens their lips, he has control of such things now, and his tongue brushes hers. It’s like lightning. She duplicates the movement, hopes that this time she will be a fast learner. His thumbs are still pressed into the skin by her ear. She feels like a disembodied head floating above for the sole purpose of being in physical contact with John. Kissing is delightful, much better than bird watching. Eagerly she moves her tongue over tongue and over teeth, bravely over a lip, and his eyes open, watching her. He pulls back a bit and she worries that she’s done something wrong. His eyes and his lips smile. “Guess I didn’t misread?” he asks.

             She isn’t sure exactly of what he’s asking, probably could think better if the pulse in her head wasn’t beating “more” to a maddening pace. Unable to answer the unknown question, she gently commands. “Please kiss me more.”

He does.

 

            Dean’s got Warrant blasting on Baby’s speakers and he’s following Granny Driver Sam. It’s so late that it’s nearly early now. Despite the smell of beast dog all over his jacket (shoved in the back trunk for now), he’s feeling pretty good. He somehow managed to smuggle the dog to Sam’s, where his dad will never go, and as long as they both keep their mouths shut about the events of the night, he just might be able to keep his dad from knowing that he broke one of the cardinal rules of hunting.

            Sam pulls up next to John’s Sierra Grande. Dean, paranoid that his dad might catch a whiff of waheela in his trunk, parks a bit farther away but not suspiciously so. Sam gets out first and as Dean approaches him, he’s all nervous smiles, and Dean worries that he’s gonna blow their cover. He leans in close to Sam and says, “If he asks why we’re late, I wanted to get some fast food, but it turned out the place that we went to wasn’t open 24 hours like you thought, get it?” Dad might be a bit pissed at him for not checking back in immediately, but food is about as decent an excuse for tardiness as he can get.

            He waits for Sam to nod before pulling out the plastic key card. The room is number 207, Dean feels proud to remember. Nothing tricky, but it’s too easy to get mixed up with yesterday’s motel room number.

            “Think we should knock first?” he asks Sam with an eyebrow waggle.

            Sam doesn’t think it’s funny and he pulls a whiny bitch face that makes Dean feel triumphant.

            Dean puts the card in the slot and opens the door. When he enters the hotel room, he sees his father on the bed, a pillow over his crotch, and Chalendra standing next to the TV, her face pink and her mouth kiss-red. He thought what he’d said to Sam was a joke. He’d been able to tell that his dad was grooving on the Mom Ackles vibe but he didn’t know his dad would make his move so fast. It’s impressive. “Hey Kids,” he says. “We’re back.”

            “It’s about time,” snaps John. Then, realizing how that sounds, like he wasn’t enjoying his lady friend’s company, he coughs and adds, “I mean, we did just finish a hunt. You should always report back first before doing any joyriding.”

            Dean wants to scoff at the word “joyriding.” It seems that his dad is more interesting in joyriding than Dean or Sam. Chalendra hasn’t looked up at the two of them, her guilty eyes studying the brown carpet. Dean doubts she took offense to John’s words because he doesn’t think she’s hearing a word anyone’s saying. “Yeah well, Sammy and I tried to get some grub in this town. Harder than you’d think at this time of night.” He looks back at Sam for confirmation. Sam, though, is staring at Chalendra, eyes impressively wide for how far down his eyebrows are. It looks like his eyelashes have little toupees. **They are making this situation way more awkward than it needs to be** , he thinks. “How’s the knee?”

            Dad, recovering quicker than Sam and Chalendra, shrugs. “I’ll live. Just a scratch, though those damn things have some long claws.” When the room remains silent after a few seconds he adds, “Think it tried to leave a tattoo on my bone.”

            “Anchor tattoo?” Dean asks. He finally moves into the room, sets down his duffel bags, hunting and clothing, on a tiny table that guests are expected to eat breakfast on. He’d rather eat in bed. Hell, he’d rather do most things in bed.

            He notices that Sam hasn’t shut the door, hasn’t even come fully into the room.

            “I don’t think waheelas do much sailing.” His dad says trying to lighten the mood, fails.

             Dean smacks Sam’s arm pulling the boy out of his shock-induced stupor. “Sam here took one out without a scratch. Guess he must be a better hunter than you ,eh old man?”

            Sam’s head moves between Dean and his dad, trying to catch up with the conversation now that Dean has physically forced his attention on it. “I’ve had a good teacher,” he says breathlessly, as though he’s been running. His eyes squint, suspicious and incredulous, as he looks at his “teacher.”

            Chalendra apparently decides then to own up to her actions. She straightens, raises her eyes, smiles at Sam. “Thank you, Sam. You’ve been a good student.”

            Dean doesn’t go in for all this happy loving family crap and, luckily, it ain’t his family, so he says, “Well, I’m gonna shower. Anyone need to pee first?” No one shouts anything, so he grabs the duffel with his clothes in it, pushes Sam into the room all the way so that he can close the damn hotel room door, and locks himself away in the too white bathroom far from the messed up Brady Bunch episode outside.

            He’s not disgusting like he so often is after a hunt and it’s nice to not have a single wound to wash or bandage. He gets a lather going on his body until he looks like Santa’s beard and he sings the Warrant song from the car, softly at first and then louder as he loses himself in the pleasure of soap and hot water and a waiting bed. This isn’t the first time he’s felt giddy about impending bedtime. Bed rocks.

            Emerging from the bathroom, t-shirt clinging to the wet spots on his chest, Dean expects to find Sam and Chalendra hugging or yelling or talking about the birds and the bees. Instead, the room is quiet and empty save for his father sitting at the small table looking in his journal with pen in hand. It’s a comforting sight, something that Dean likens to other guys seeing their dads reading the Sunday paper. His dad’s face is focused. It was such a basic, open-shut case that Dean wonders what he’s even had to write about the situation. Cases like these are Winchester weekends.

            Dean sets his duffel on the bed farthest from the bathroom, the bed that dad hadn’t been making out in. He can smell her, he thinks, a slight feminine aroma, but his own soap smell is so strong that he could just be imagining it, or worse, smelling himself. An elf of mischief sneaks into his mind and he lets it out his mouth because, hell, this is a rare opportunity. “Sam’s mom seems nice.”

             John doesn’t look up. “Shut up."


	4. New Friends

            “Sam, you’re pacing.”

            “Sorry.”

            “You’ve done nothing that you need to apologize for, but in light of your… tension, I feel inclined to ask if I strong-armed you into agreeing that this dinner was something you were okay with.”

            Sam is nervous, yeah, but it’s a good kind of nervous. When Chalendra had asked him if it was okay to invite the Winchesters to dinner before they left town, to offer them a home-cooked meal before they were back to Biggersons’ questionable slop, Sam had wanted to jump for joy, just a little of course and in a very mature way. Chal doesn’t make friends easily, keeps them less frequently. Sure, he’d overreacted last night to interrupting whatever had been going on with her and Dean’s dad, but the opportunity to have Dean himself over, to talk to in their house about things that interest him, to tell him about feeding Cujo (they had to find a better name for the waheela) and how close it had come to his hand, is worth accepting the fact that maybe Chal isn’t as different as he’d thought and that maybe he has to grow up a bit about who she is. A part of him, though, still resents that she couldn’t have waited just two more years to start showing an interest in men.

            Sam realizes as all his concerns about Chalendra and Dean’s dad whip through his head in the space of a second that he’s not just pacing with his feet but with his mind. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and draws from his training, focuses on his chosen mantra, holds his hands in Gyan mudras. It speaks to the number of times that he has done this with Chal that he doesn’t feel self-conscious about stopping mid-conversation to do this grounding exercise. His mind slows: autobahn, highway, street, lane, and finally, parking lot.  He opens his eyes. Chal is still reading her book, a biography of Ezra Meekeran, an Oregon Trail explorer.

            “I’m excited; I think it was a good idea.”

            She looks up slowly, clearly enjoying the book but also eager to hear his thoughts. Chalendra has always been that way. She studies things, people, with an active attention no one else gives. “I’m glad. Dean seems like a good man. I like that he praised your fighting skills.”

            Sam considers joking that she’s only happy because she was the one who taught him to fight, but he keeps his mouth shut; Dean had complimented him over twelve hours ago but it still makes him feel special. “John seemed nice too,” he offers and then feels even more embarrassed because it sounds like they’re trading compliments about each other’s dates or something.

            When Chal smiles from her heart, her nose scrunches down like the Bewitched chick. It does so now and though he doesn’t really need any more clues that she has a crush on Dean’s dad, he gets it. “Men with good hearts are rarer than I had expected and yet now I have met at least three.”

            It’s lame but he likes it when she refers to him as a man. He changes the subject, sort of, “The minestrone smells good.”

            She nods. “It will smell better with your garlic bread?”

            “Yeah, I can do that.”

            “But don’t start it until they’re about due to arrive.”

            “Three hours?” he asks.

            She nods and he sighs.

 

            When the doorbell rings, Sam bounces towards the door like an excited rubber ball.  The mood is all set in the house, the smell of minestrone and garlic, dishware laid out on the table next to cloth napkins, and the rasp of Sarah Vaughan’s voice flirting with excited brass horns and rhythmic bass fiddles rumbling softly from the CD player. Sam and Chalendra haven’t even considered that maybe they’re overdoing things, just following the social protocol of films and television and what little interactions they’ve had with other families. Sam did rethink the button-up shirt, pulling an old sweatshirt over it at the last minute, the fancy collar peeking out from the low-stretched holed neckline.   

            After yanking the door open, Sam notes that, though the elder Winchester’s eye contact is still strong and unswerving, John is also nervous, mask of assertive confidence not as solid as he perhaps hopes. Still, John smiles and, behind him, Dean does the same. The light of their twin grins makes Sam feel self-consciously happy, nervous that he’ll do something to ruin the evening, that Dean will realize he’s too cool to be hanging out with a high-schooler, even if they are both hunters.

             “Hello, Sam,” John greets.

            “Hi, Mr. Winchester, Dean. Come on in.”

            John steps over the threshold into their home. Even with how much Sam trusts the two, he thinks “Not a vampire.” Actually there are a number of monsters that would find entering the Ackles’ household difficult if not impossible, but it’s a silly thought since he knows that they’re hunters and good people. He feels guilty even for thinking it.

            They’re looking around the living room.  Sam looks too, trying to guess what the room says about who he and Chal are. There are sigils, though not all are visible, making them look a bit paranoid, thriving plants, both functional and decorative, making them look like hippies, and second-hand furniture making them look poor. Sam regrets having looked.

            “Cozy place,” says John.

            “Smells good,” adds Dean. Dean’s in a red flannel and jeans, dressed casual like Sam in his sweatshirt. Somehow Dean’s ended up in front of his father and Sam wonders, briefly, if he’s supposed to try and shake their hands or something. Dean’s presence fills the small room, like one musician on a stage still managing to capture the attention of the stadium.

            “Your father said that you like food!” gushes Chalendra from the kitchen. She comes in then, wraps her strong arms around Dean and hugs him like a second son. When she pulls away and Dean’s face matches his flannel, Sam bites his tongue, but it doesn’t matter because Dean’s looking at him and sees how amused by Dean’s embarrassment he is. She turns then to John whom she also hugs tightly and Sam has to look away because it makes him feel strange, almost woozy, maybe angry. His eyes stupidly turn to Dean who gives him a shit-eating grin and Sam knows the pain of fast karma. “Thank you for coming, both of you.”

            “Thanks for inviting us,” says John. “It isn’t often we get to have a home-cooked meal.”

            Chalendra laughs. “That was how I presented the idea to your father!” she says towards Dean, though her body still faces John. “I suppose it was rather manipulative of me to resort to bribery.” Her voice falters and she looks uncertain. Sam knows how important it is to Chal to never inhibit the free will of others. She doesn’t even like to do that with him, which, in his eyes, has made her a pretty awesome parent, hunter lifestyle notwithstanding; he’s always appreciated how she lets him figure life out for himself.

             John catches her concern and Sam is grateful when he says, “The company is also bribery,” even if it does sound flirtatious.

            In response, Chal smiles and Dean coughs loudly as though he has a hairball. She invites them to sit at the dining table. It pleases Sam to note John give a surreptitious smack to the back of Dean’s head as Chal drifts off to the kitchen to fetch the meal.

             “You’re not gonna be a pain in the ass tonight,” John growls at his son, his voice low and threatening, like Cujo had attempted to make its voice.

            Sam sits at the table, glad to not be the target of the command.

            The Winchesters look too big for the table or maybe they just don’t look natural at it, like the home life is so far beyond their experience that they don’t even know how to sit in the room. The table is round, sized better for two people, and Chal has a vase, perky yellow buttercup and all, in the center. Sam hadn’t noticed it until now, thinks for the first time that maybe he and Chal have overdone this evening. He doesn’t have long to worry about it though before Chal carries in the minestrone. It’s hearty, more of a stew than a soup, as Sam’s preference runs, and the steam curls temptingly up to the ceiling.

            The divide between the families’ mannerisms announces itself as they eat. Dean and John eat quickly, as though they have something pressing to get to, and loudly, like their jaw noises are part of the jazz music. They don’t talk much, but they smile often, exaggerating, perhaps, their appreciation of the food. Dean mows through Sam’s garlic bread oblivious of his selfish hogging and he’s just lucky that Sam had thought to ready a second loaf since he knows that he and Chal have easily gone through one themselves. Of course, he and Chal did so slowly, enjoying the flavors of the food, and quietly, waiting to finish each swallow before broaching conversation and then only after having said grace. Chal doesn’t seem offended by the rude actions as she would be if Sam ever pulled that, seems, instead, to find it endearing. Sam would wonder why she was so endeared by the Winchesters except he already considers Dean both ally and friend. Sam pushes his judgment aside, easy enough to do with the pleasant atmosphere, and just enjoys having guests for once.

           

            “So, we finally figure out that she had put a spell on her glasses!” John’s audience is receptive, snickers at the revelation, all except Dean who was there. “I wasn’t going crazy after all!”

            Dean adds, “Well….” And John shoots him a good-natured warning look.

      “But, it was pretty easy to wrap up once we put two and two together on that.” The specifics were mundane, one of the cases where they didn’t have to kill anything or anyone, the specific reason he’d chosen the tale. He didn’t want to sour the light-hearted atmosphere in the room with stories of the violence they had to inflict, the deceptions they had to weave, or the broken lives they left in their rearview mirrors over the years.

            Sam joins in then, telling of a time that he and Chalendra had been slow to realize something on a hunt, picking up the topic of the last story. John watches the boy as he explains with great animation their foolishness, doesn’t much catch the words as he studies. This young man is so smart that he nearly shines with his intelligence. As Chalendra, whom Sam refers to as Chal, had implied, he also seems to be quite kind and well-mannered. John and Dean have the loveseat while Sam and Chalendra sit on the floor, though only after she’d convinced him that she does so often and doesn’t mind. Sam’s at Dean’s right side and his shoulder occasionally brushes Dean’s fingers. John thinks that it’s like the boy has a gravitational pull to his son. It’s cute, really, and he can’t imagine Dean having any problem with being the object of hero worship. He doubts that Dean has even noticed yet because he isn’t peacocking all over the place as he always does when girls show interest in him. God’s gift to horny barmaids.

            John also studies Chalendra, her bright eyes and smile, the way she taps one fingertip on her leg in time to the music that the rest of them are ignoring. She doesn’t look old enough to be Sam’s mother and not just in a polite way, but in a doing the math in his head way. She looks about 25, 30 max. She must have still been in high school, maybe even junior high, when she had Sam. He wonders if that’s a contributing reason why she’s so strong and proud. Her brown eyes are large and so is her nose, skin a lovely tanned color, dark enough that he wonders if she has Middle Eastern ancestry. Her last name is pure Anglo-Saxon, but her first name is unique, perhaps just the result of new age parents. Her fingernails are cut short but even then he can see dirt beneath them from gardening (Sam had bragged about how many of the items in the minestrone were from her garden) and perhaps grave digging.

            “John?” asks Chalendra.

            He kicks himself for zoning out. “Sorry. Digesting.”

            She likes the answer, though it doesn’t seem as though she entirely believes it. “Perhaps we should play a game? Sam likes Monopoly, but only when we have company.”

            “That’s cause you don’t trade,” gripes Sam. Then, obviously self-conscious about liking a board game, he adds, “We haven’t played since I was a kid anyway.”

            John wants to laugh. The cute scruffy-haired boy doesn’t want to look childish, wants to save face in front of Dean. “Shit, I haven’t played a board game in years. I’d be game. Dean?”

            While displaying skepticism about the activity’s fun factor, Dean shrugs. “Sure. I get to be the car.”

 

            After the game, Sam makes an excuse about showing Dean the neighborhood. After all, this is supposed to be Dean’s first time to their place, so it’s not so unreasonable. He’s pretty proud of the little nest he’s made the waheela pup, sneaking in some old blankets and shoes while Chal went to the grocery store. Chal jumps on the idea, suggesting he also show Dean his room.

            Sam rubs at the back of his neck, feels the blush burning there, and nods at Chalendra. “Sure, I’ll take him around the block first though.”

            “Of course, any order you prefer, Sam.” Chal turns back to John. “Do you have any reticence in sharing hunting information? I would welcome the opportunity to trade notes.”

            “I suppose it’s better them nerding it up then getting all old-people frisky,” jokes Dean when they get outside.

            It’s another moderate night, moderate for Michigan anyway, and the clouds aren’t completely covering the stars. Sam looks at them and smiles. He’s picked up Chal’s hobby of star-gazing. She has a telescope and they go up on the roof sometimes to look. It’s been months, though, on account of winter. They’ll see a lot more stars in Texas, he’s sure of it. It takes Sam a moment to replay what Dean said, forcing himself back into the realm of the social and away from the creative. “Don’t be gross,” he chides.

            Dean’s hands are in his jean pockets, maybe he’s cold since he’s not wearing a jacket, and he grins at Sam. Together they walk back to the shed, knowing without needing to communicate it that it’s their destination. “Don’t like the idea of mommy making the beast with two backs?”

            “No more than you do,” snaps Sam.

            “I don’t mind the thought of your mom naked. Ow!” Dean clutches his arm as though the punch really hurts, which Sam doubts because it doesn’t wipe that stupid self-satisfied smile off Dean’s stupid face. “What? Maybe you should just deal with the fact that your mom’s a woman. You know, grow up.”

            Dean’s playing, teasing, but the words hurt. Sam already feels like a nine-year-old next to Dean, already feels like Robin to his Batman. Fuck, Sam has no intention of being anyone’s damned sidekick. “At least I’m not the one blaming my loss on his game piece!”

            “Well, how is anyone supposed to win the game driving a roadster? I mean, they’re silly looking!” Then, when Sam doesn’t reply, is too angry to reply, Dean adds, “Like you!”

            “Do you want to see Cujo or not?” hisses Sam, voice low. They’re at the door of the shed but he’s angry. He doesn’t have to tell Dean the combination lock. Hell, if he wanted to, he could go right back into the house and tell Dean’s dad all about their four-legged adoption. Then John would kill it and Sam would feel miserable, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t relish the idea of seeing the look on Dean’s face as his dad chews him out for letting a monster live.

            There is a wood board on the ground outside the shed, a little bridge to cover the mud that forms outside the shed door, to prevent slipping. The wood itself got icy as death during the winter which negated the whole point for a while, but now it’s just a dry board sitting atop mostly dry ground. It rocks back and forth a bit under Sam’s feet.

            Dean’s looking at him, gauging his mood, Sam thinks. “You get cranky,” says Dean.

            “Maybe I just don’t like being reminded that my mom is a woman or that I’m silly looking, okay?” When Sam gets mad his temperature goes up. He’s like a kettle, no water is boiling yet, but it will soon, if one of them doesn’t change the conversation.

            “I was just kidding, man. You look fine, kind of cute.” Dean casually looks around the back alley, embarrassed either by having to issue a retraction of his earlier insult or the compliment that he coats it with. When he does look back, Sam feels his stomach butterfly a bit and he has to look away. Dean coughs. “Besides, dad’s hard to beat. You should see him at pool; the guy is an awesome hustler.”

            Sam opens the padlock and lets them inside, anger slipping back into the low place in his stomach where it tends to sleep, or at least lie still as though sleeping, an insomniac waiting for morning. They shut the door behind them before Sam pulls on the cord for the light. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the napkin of food he’s smuggled. They’re just cold cuts, nothing fancy, things he managed to shoplift from the grocery store earlier. He has no idea how much a baby waheela eats, but he’s pretty sure it’ll like meat more than it did the dairy and grain products he’d brought to it in the morning. Chal’s vegetarianism isn’t normally a problem. Since she keeps the fridge stocked with non-meat products, he rarely makes separate trips to the store for meat for himself, and didn’t have any on hand.

            Dean sits down, Indian-style, on the devil’s trap. Sam joins him after setting the napkin out in front of them a good foot and a half first. Then they wait. The light bulb illuminates things in a clearly defined circumference around the shed, creates spooky shadows in between boxes and ritual masks and hedge trimmers. Sam can smell Dean, cologne that makes him think of highways and hands dirty from gasoline. From the corner of his eye he admires the sharpness of Dean’s jaw, a knife edge with tiny dots of hair. Sam can’t grow a beard, the hair comes in patchy and reluctant; he doubts Dean has such trouble.

            His senses so tuned in to Dean, Sam almost misses when the waheela shuffles out of hiding, black rubbery nose high in the air. It regards them nervously, makes a small whimper and then backs up so that its furry rump is back in the space between boxes. Then, when they make no move to catch it, it moves forward again, seemingly led by its nose. Timidly, untrustingly, Cujo makes its way to the napkin. While it eats, it keeps its eyes on them, somehow managing to keep both the large humans in the center of its vision while it inhales the slices of turkey and ham.

            Dean’s voice catches both Sam and the waheela by surprise, makes them jump. “Cujo,” he says. The waheela reels backwards expecting an attack which doesn’t come. Slowly, the smell lures it back to feeding.  Then, when Dean says, “Cujo,” again, it twitches but doesn’t stop eating.  Dean repeats the name four more times, acclimatizing the beast to his voice, and then the cub is finished and retreating.

            The smile on Dean’s face when Sam looks at him is far brighter than the shed’s bulb. “That’s a damn cute pet monster you’ve got there.”

            Sam’s pride fills him. “It’s our pet,” he corrects. “You’re as guilty for this abduction as I am.”

            “If my dad asks, I’m saying I knew nothing.”

            “That’s fine. I’ll tell him that you’re lying.”

            They mock-glare at each other for several seconds before smiles win out.

            Sam asks, “Are we really calling it Cujo?”

            “Yep,” says Dean.

            Sam sighs. “What if it’s a girl?”

            “Then it’s a girl named Cujo. God, I thought you were supposed to be, like, a genius or something!”

            Sam rolls his eyes in Dean’s general direction before rising from the floor. “Come on, we don’t want them to come looking for us.”

            “Cool, now I guess you give me the house tour.” When Dean looks at him slyly and says, “I believe you were told to start with your room,” Sam’s stomach twitches. He wonders as he takes in the green eyes, the chiseled jaw, the broad shoulders, the bowed legs, if maybe his interest in Dean Winchester is a little stronger than he’d first thought.

 

            Sam’s a computer nerd. Dean isn’t surprised. He’s also a nerd nerd, another non-surprise, and Dean tries not to start up teasing him immediately as he comes in and sees the Star Wars poster on the wall. Sam’s already shown that he doesn’t take teasing too well, moody teenage shit, Dean hopes, and so he bites his lip since this _is_ Sam’s turf that he’s on. He puts on his best “That’s pretty cool” face to the things that Sam shows him, personal website, book, video game, and collectible card collections, and action figures, which even Sam seems to know that he’s too old to be playing with, personally modified or not. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings and he supposes that the little Boba Fett figure is kind of cool. He sits on Sam’s bed, raises the bounty hunter’s gun arm and aims at various things in Sam’s room. Sam is in his computer chair watching everything Dean does, judging his response to things.

            There are short particle board bookshelves next to Sam’s pillow. The books on these look older than the glossy sci-fi series on his large bookcase. There’s even some kids’ books and Dean can tell from their worn spines that these were little Sam’s books, maybe read by little Sam’s mom to help put him to sleep. He reaches out and touches them reverently, swallows the envy and tries, for his own sake, to just be happy that some people got to have things like mothers to read them bedtime stories.

            There are several loose papers tucked above the books on the bottom shelf. Dean picks one up; it’s covered in the most amazing hand-drawn images. People that look real, zits and all, and storefronts with sale signs, text written in perfect capital letters in frames above each picture. It’s a comic book. He picks up a couple of more of the pages. This is no stupid Superman shit either, this is edgy, one guy’s shooting up over the course of several panels. The details, veins, rubber band, face contorted in despair, fascinate Dean, make him feel uneasy.

            “Oh those are just something I do when I’m bored in class,” Sam says dismissively. Dean can hear, anyway, the desire for praise, the importance of these drawings in the hopeful tone in Sam’s voice.

            “You draw junkies in class?” asks Dean, flipping to another page where the junkie is holding a gun to his own temple. The gun looks dirty and so do the man’s hands, covered in dirt and crinkled hands with pruned fingertips. He can’t help saying it. “These are fucking amazing, Sam.”

            He hears Sam stand and then he sits next to him one the bed and watches him. Dean feels the eyes on him, gaze stronger than ever before because Dean is looking at something Sam has created. Sam’s nervous like a parent on his kid’s first day at school. Dean’s fingers trace over the lines, wonders if he runs his fingers over them enough, if he can learn how to draw like this or if it’s some deep one-in-a-million talent.

            Sam speaks in a whisper. “That’s Nick. He lost his kid and his wife. A crazy guy came in and killed them both.” Dean nods. It’s all he can do. He’s at a loss to comprehend the part of Sam that can draw this, that apparently has created an entire life for this poor illustrated junkie. He points to the gun, hopes that Sam can figure out what he’s asking. Sam gets it, replies, “He can’t. There’s something in him that won’t let him pull the trigger. He thinks it’s the devil.”

            “Is it?” asks Dean. His fingers run over the craters on Nick’s cheeks. Even though the work is done in pencil, he can tell that they’re open, bloody.

            Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s not finished yet.”

            “You have to finish, dude.”

            Sam smiles. “Yeah?”

            “Yeah, you… man… If I could draw like this, Dad would have to remind me to hunt. I’d spend all of my time doing this.” Dean nods at Sam, tries to get through how impressed he is with more than just words. “You draw amazing stuff, Sam.”

            They’re sitting side by side and Dean can swear that he can feel Sam’s blush like a heat wave pouring over from Sam’s leg to his own. Embarrassing for the kid or not, he needs to hear it because Dean hates that these are just lying around crammed into a bookshelf and not bound in a book in their own right. “You should get these published.”

            Sam laughs. “They’re not that good.”

            “My ass!” says Dean loudly.

            The reaction pleases Sam who smiles through the blush. “Well, they’re better than your ass.”

            “Nonsense, my ass is amazing. Round and firm. Everyone loves my ass.”

            Sam acts skeptical, but Dean is pretty secure in the way his body looks, so he just smirks.

            The last page that Dean looks at, he suspects is the first drawn. Nick is in an alley. It’s raining and his hair is pressed down on his head. His face is wet, but not just from the rain, from the tears streaming from his red rimmed eyes; again Dean sees the color past the pencil grey.

                                                                                                                                          “Can I have your email address?” asks Sam.                                                                                                        

            “Don’t have one.”

            “How can you not have an email address?”

            “Cause they’re for nerds!” Dean’s used computers before, of course, but he never saw the draw. There isn’t anything there that isn’t ten times less fun than doing it in real life. It’s like porn. Sam disagrees, obviously, but he is quiet, thinking. Dean bumps him with his shoulder. “Not nerdy in a bad way, just nerdy nerdy.”

            “They’re good for staying in touch with people when you’re on the road.”

            Dean considers this. He does want to keep talking with Sam, likes Sam and, more importantly, trusts Sam. “Fine, you set me up one. But, I don’t want to hear about Star Trek and shit. You use it to give me Cujo and Nick updates, okay?”

            Before he even hears any agreement, Sam is up and at the computer. Pretty soon Dean’s wallet has a paper with Dmonhunter@aol.com and waheela123 printed in neat capital letters in it and they’re making their way back to their parents.

            To Dean’s relief, John and Chalendra are not sucking face, but are instead comparing hunting journals. “Oh god, there’s two of them!”

            Chalendra smiles at him, a greeting he’s coming to expect from her. “This is fun!” she says, sounding like a high school cheerleader. “Your father takes as many notes as I do.”

            Sam speaks up behind him. “Not possible.”

            “So, Sam isn’t the only nerd in the family?” Dean deserves the glare that his dad gives him; he is normally very respectful around his elders, but something about the Ackleses feels so comfortable and familiar.

            “No, just like I’m not the only jackass in ours,” retorts John closing his journal. “What do you say to crashing here one more night and heading out in the AM? I know I said we’d go tonight, but not much use getting going this late anyway.”

            Dad doesn’t often ask Dean his opinion on things, though he’s been putting forth more of an effort of camaraderie since he’s turned eighteen, and he knows that it’s more of a formality than anything else, but Dean still appreciates it. “Sure, sounds good to me.” Dean does briefly wonder what kind of fight it would cause if he were to object to John’s plan, but that’s just flirting with what-ifs since staying in town another night sounds great. It is going on midnight now.

            John rises to his feet and Chalendra follows suit. She leaves her journal open and from where Dean stands, between the door and the dining room table, he can see copious amounts of tiny writing and a sketch here or there. Perhaps Sam gets his drawing talent from her, he thinks.

            They say their goodbyes at the door. Promises to keep in touch and to drive safely float in the air. Chalendra hugs Dean, again covering him with the reminiscence of a woman long ago who held him with such care. She hugs John too, but also presses a firm close-lipped kiss to his lips. When she pulls away from it, Dean swears he can see his dad’s nervousness, and some giddiness too. Dean hugs Sam, a one-armed manly embrace that doesn’t feel anything like the one they shared in the woods. Still, he feels one of Sam’s hands, the same ones that created the artwork which had awed him so upstairs, tighten around his shoulder blade and it feels desperate, like Sam doesn’t want him to go. Once they break apart, Sam offers a hand to John who pleasantly accepts it. If Dean knows his dad, his grip is probably too tight, but Sam takes it in stride, perhaps seeing it, correctly, as evidence of respect.

            Dean and John leave the Ackles’ house full of food, warmth, and love. 


	5. Phone Calls

       

            “Hey Kiddo, get bitten by any monsters?” asks Dean.

            Sam snaps back, “Nope, I think that it just had it out for you, Grandpa.” Chal, who insisted that the boys talk to each other, left the room after passing him in the phone. Sam thinks that it’s one thing for her and John to talk on the phone, they’re practicing some messed up courtship ritual, but making him and Dean talk is just weird. The awkwardness of being on the phone with Dean lasts for all of about two seconds, because Dean immediately starts asking questions about their secret, the one that unites them, and does so while referring to Sam as “kiddo” which, while condescending, demonstrates familiarity.

            “I can’t help it if I’m delicious,” retorts Dean.

            Sam smiles which is okay because Dean can’t see it. “I’ll take your word for that.”

            “That would be a waste.”

            “Huh?” asks Sam. He feels dense, suddenly, because that couldn’t be flirtation could it?

            “Genius, my ass,” says Dean. “So, everything’s okay there? No more waheela attacks?”

            Dean’s dad must still be in the room, otherwise Dean wouldn’t be using this coded language to check up on the waheela cub. It’s been three days and already Cujo has let Sam pet it, though warily, mistrusting pink eyes on him at all times. “Nope.” Then, he whispers, “Even let me pet it.”

            “You be careful.”

            “Yes, mom.” Sam leans back in his computer chair, long legs draped over the only section of desk with exposed surface, the only area without textbooks, papers, knick-knacks, pencils, or CDs. He grips the squishy pink stress-relief ball that Chal bought him from Office Depot. It smells funny, like latex, but it’s hard not to touch it, subtly amusing to squeeze the soft texture and watch as it slowly returns to its original shape.

            “I can’t be both your mom and your grandpa, Sam. Pick an insult and stick with it.”

            “Does ‘dick’ work?” Sam smiles at the combination of both curse and rhetorical question.

            Dean’s voice lowers, implying secrecy. “Sometimes it does.” And Sam looks at the white cordless phone as though it’s responsible for the innuendo that Dean is tossing out. Before he can answer, which would probably take long enough to read War and Peace, Dean says, “Well, I’m gonna get back to the Simpsons. Have we talked in enough to make Chal happy? Ow!” Sam can’t hear whatever John’s doing or saying, but Dean sounds huffy when he says, “I’m passing the phone back to Dad.”

            “Night, Dean.”

            “Night, Danny Boy.”

 

            Their second conversation occurs three days later and goes much the same way, with Chal pushing the phone into his hand and John doing the same to Dean. He feels like he’s in a reverse Parent Trap where the parents try to get the kids together.

            “Hey, Sam. I am totally voluntarily talking to you with no pressure from my dad.”

            This time, Sam hears the thunk that precedes Dean’s exclamation of surprised pain. “Ow. Dad! Not your shoe!” says Dean. “My back’s gonna reek for days.”

            Sam laughs, textbook jiggling to the motion of his belly. “You should watch it; your dad’s kind of scary.”

            “Yep!” agrees Dean, sounding proud. “So, how’s Nick?”

            Sam looks over at Chal. She’s repotting a plant on the dining room table. He considers going into his room, but that just feels like giving in to whatever Chal is trying to foist upon him. “I’d rather not talk about that now,” he says softly.

            “You should give me your cell phone number.”

            Sam’s surprised. “You’d call me?” He winces at the optimistic immaturity, wants to just pass the phone back to Chal and say, “Never mind, I’m way too dorky for him.”

            “Dude, I spend hours driving and sitting in hotel rooms watching the fucking paint dry. Sure. What the hell else better do I have to do?”

            “Flatterer,” jokes Sam, but he’s relieved. He knows that their folks are kind of shoving them into a friendship and he doesn’t want to be that pesky younger kid that follows the older one around everywhere. He gives Dean his cell number three times since the first time Dean doesn’t have a pen handy and the second time he gets the numbers wrong.

            “I’ll bug you tomorrow once we get under way. We’re driving up to Maine in the a.m.”

            “Cool,” says Sam. Tomorrow is a Saturday and except for sleeping, he doesn’t have any big plans to celebrate the start of the weekend. “What’s in Maine?”

            “Ghost, I think. Dad just kind of tells me where to go and I worry about how to kill it once we get there.”

            Sam grins. Chal always goes overboard with her strategizing, as though she’s still part of her old garrison. “Cool.”

            “Go get Chal; I’m putting Dad back on.”

            “Okay.”

            “Bye, Danny Boy.”

 

            It would be lame for him to wait around outside for Dean’s call and that totally isn’t what he’s doing by sitting all alone in the Ram listening to the radio, volume low, and re-reading the same pages of a book while sneaking peeks at his cellphone. And if he happens to answer Dean’s call before the first ring finishes, that doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s excited to have Dean calling him of his volition, separate from John’s prodding.

            “Hello?”

            “Sammy!” Dean yells over the sound of the Rolling Stones. “A waheela is not for petting. It’s a monster.”

            There haven’t been any signs that Cujo is anything but the bear puppy that it looks like. Not only has it been letting it pet him, but now it waits for him when it hears the shed door open, already anticipating that it will be Sam. He’d been pleased when it had done it, but then it occurred to him that it only makes Chal going out the shed that much more dangerous. Sooner or later, he’s going to have to find a new place for the adorable beast. “Tell that to Cujo.”

            “What?”

            “Turn down the music, you dumbass.”

            The music disappears entirely and Dean says, “You do NOT get radio control in my baby, especially when you’re not even in it!”

            “Just thought it’d be easier to not have to yell everything.”

            Stubbornly, Dean sidesteps admitting the logic of that thinking. “So, why are you treating a waheela like a puppy?”

            “It is a puppy, Dean. It’s a waheela puppy. If it grows up domesticated…”

            Dean interrupts, “Don’t give me that nature versus nurture crap.”

            Sam thinks that of all people, Dean Winchester shouldn’t think the nature versus nurture argument is crap. He is practically the poster child of the argument for “nurture.” Of course, Dean might be in denial, might think that regardless of his upbringing he’d always be proficient with handling firearms and familiar with torture techniques. That would be some messed up innate talents.

            “Fine, how about the “benefit of the doubt” crap?” Sam asks.

            Dean pauses. “Just be careful, Sammy. Don’t let its cuteness make you forget that it’s a killer.”

            Chal does this to him all the time, underestimating his intelligence, inundating him with a repetition of warnings that even a small child could figure out unaided. “Whatever,” he huffs, tossing his book, Arthur C. Clarke, onto the dash of the Ram.

            “So, tell me about Nick.”

            “I haven’t really been working on him. I’ve got finals coming up.” Sam has been drawing, but he’s not sure yet if he has another comic on his hands or just some doodles. So far it’s just been forest scenes, mostly because he’s been replaying the night of the waheela hunt over and over in his mind. His pencil has been creating leaves and bark, the plants darkened by a moonless night sky. He likes them, thinks the atmosphere adequately reflects the spooky woods that night, but they might just be one-offs with no real story behind them.

            “Finals? God, I’m glad I’m out of school.”

             Sam knows how Dean feels. He likes learning, but hates school. He’s heard that college is better, that you have more say in the things you learn there, but the thought of doing core curriculum stuff pisses him off.            He just wants to read what he wants, learn what he wants. “Yeah, rub it in…”

            “What classes are you good at?” asks Dean.

            “I don’t know. English.”

            “Yeah, well, it is the language you speak.”

            “I’m pretty good at languages in general,” Sam says, ignoring the insult. “I mean, I know a lot of Latin and so that helps with Italian. I learned some Korean when I was in Alabama.”

            “Wait, you learned Korean in Alabama?”

            “Yeah, kind of unconventional, but I was friends with a girl whose family had just come from Korea.”

            “Nice,” says Dean. “A girl or a girlfriend?”

            Sam smiles. Ji-eun would have had his ass if he’d tried to kiss her, but then, they’d been like ten. The first few months of their tentative friendship, she’d still thought boys were icky, and he’d only gone so far in changing her mind with his bug collecting and fart humor. He wonders what she’s grown up to be like, if she still roller skates. “Just a friend.”

            “You going to college?”

            “I haven’t decided yet.”

            A loud honk blasts Sam’s ear drum and he pulls the phone back from his ear. He hears Dean cursing. “I hate New York. Hey, why don’t we cut this short?” asks Dean.

            “Sure.”

            “I’ll talk at you later, Kiddo.”

            The line goes silent before Sam gets the chance to say goodbye.

           

 

            On Monday afternoon Dean’s phone beeps with the message, _Call when Solo_. He’s just gotten back from lunch at Yum Diner (the name does not reflect the quality of the cuisine) and is lying on the lumpy twin bed considering napping through the intestinal acrobatics required to digest the Yum Time Special. He calls Sam back right away looking forward to distracting himself with the pleasantness of conversation with his friend.

            “I’m as Solo as Han,” he says after Sam says hello. He’s seen the posters, knows that Sam will get it.

            “You can officially call Cujo a bitch,” says Sam.

            “Did it bite you?” His concern is tempered by the fact that Sam’s not too injured to text.

            “No, I mean Cujo is female.”

            “No shit?” Dean’s eyes flick to where his jacket is lying across his duffel on the second bed. “But she didn’t like my jacket!”

            “Maybe she’s a lesbian waheela.” Dean hears the smile in Sam’s voice. “I flipped her over, and yeah, before you ask, she did try and bite me, but anyway, I didn’t see a dick, so either she’s a girl or she takes after you.”

            “Fuck that, my dick is awesome.” He’s staring at the air conditioning unit, a Friedrich. It’s not hot enough to necessitate the cooler, but he will probably turn on the fan part at some point, just to air the room out. They’d been all out of non-smoking rooms and while Dean can appreciate a good cigar, stale cigarette is not exactly like potpourri. “Almost too big really.”

            Sam laughs. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

            A wicked thought slips off Dean’s lips. “Bigger than you could take, Sammy.” The line goes quiet and Dean thinks he’s gone too far. He waits for Sammy to say something but silence drags the moment like the last day before summer vacation. He switches topics. “You’re not teaching the damn waheela to fetch, are you?”

            “I’ve rolled a ball for her a bit,” Sam’s voice is softer, more subdued.

            Dean likes that he’s shocked the teasing arrogance out of Sam. He just loves causing reactions in the kid, possibly because it’s so easy to do. “Jesus Christ, it’s a monster not Lassie!”

            “Are we gonna have this conversation every fucking time we talk?”

            Sam’s words should sound pouty, but instead, their tone reminds Dean of his dad right when his temper hits its limit. That voice in John’s throat means that Dean’s about to get the cold shoulder because he’s pushing dad too much. Not wanting the punishment of silence, Dean backs down. “Nah, I’m dropping it now. Tell me something else going on with you besides looking for monster dick.” He hadn’t even meant the double entendre but it amuses him greatly when he notices it.

            “Well, I started a new comic.”

            Dean feels stupidly sad for Nick, doesn’t want the poor junkie abandoned. “Oh yeah? What’s it about?”

            “It’s called Hunters. I’m not sure I like it yet, only done a few panels.”

            “I’m sure it kicks ass. Do I get to see it next time?”

            “You’re still heading to Maine right?”

            Dean hadn’t meant to imply that he was going to be in Michigan anytime soon. “Yeah, but you still need time to draw it.”

            “If I get any time.”

            “Still dealing with finals?”

            “Not for two more weeks, but that means that a lot of end of year projects are coming due.”

            “Sucks.” Dean doesn’t really know what else to say. He’d hated school, felt like it was a façade, just a mask of order in a world of chaos. Knowing how many electrons were in a plutonium atom wasn’t going to save your ass from a witch hex. “Well, I’m gonna get some use out of this crappy bed.”

            “For sleep?” asks Sam.

            Dean likes that he’s asking, maybe getting braver, though it could just be in reference to it being afternoon. “This time,” he says provocatively.

            Sam laughs. “What, did your leather jacket fail to bag you company?”

            **Definitely braver** , thinks Dean. “One of these days, your smart mouth is going to get you into trouble.”

            “Goodnight, Dean.”

            “Yeah, whatever,” says Dean, ending the call with a smile.

 

            On Monday night, Sam’s mixing up a bowl of hummus and sucking down the occasional fingerful when Chal enters the kitchen with a smile illuminating her face. _Dean’s coming_ , he thinks. That smile would probably be reserved for John, but where one Winchester is, another seems to follow. She doesn’t care that he’s got chickpeas and garlic on his fingers, just reaches out for him and pulls him into a tight hug.

            “You okay?” he asks, surprised, and then worried as he realizes that she’s crying. His arms close around her, hands stretched backwards to avoid covering her with food. “Chal?”

            She smiles up at him, chin on his chest. “I am great.”

            “You’re crying….”

            Chal laughs, rubs the back of her wrist across her wet lashes. “Indeed. I’ve been a human too long, it seems.”

            “What’s wrong?” He remembers the last time that she cried. She had run over a possum in the Ram. Her response had been as intense as though she’d hit a person. He’d had to talk her out of calling an ambulance. She kept insisting that, regardless of what Sam said, the paramedics would have to try and revive the possum because it was a living thing and that was their job.

            She releases him and laughs. “Nothing is wrong. We have another pet.”

            “A possum?” he asks.

            She tilts her head in that way that means she doesn’t understand something; she doesn’t know the strange connection that Sam now has to her tears and possums. “No, not a possum. A waheela.”

            _Dean’s gonna kill me_ , Sam thinks. “How did you…? Did you go out to the shed?”

            Chal nods. “I bought boxes for the move. I was unloading them. So, what’s its name?” she asks excitedly.

            Sam knew that Chal would take the news better than Dean’s dad, but he had no idea that she would be happy about it. Considering this thing could grow up to be another thing that they have to hunt, she should be at least a little frustrated, not shedding happy tears in their kitchen. “Cujo.”

            “Cujo,” she repeats, obviously not associating the name with Stephen King. “Cujo Ackles. It’s a good name. I approve of the choice.”

            “I’ll let Dean know.”

            “Oh!” her hands clasp in front of her mouth and she looks like she might scream. “You _and_ Dean saved the cub?”

            Perhaps admitting that hadn’t been the smartest thing that he’d ever done. Sam Ackles, snitch by accidental oversharing. “Oh. Yeah, but, Chal, you can’t tell his dad! He would be so mad if he knew!”

            She hugs him again and this is going past the point of weirdness. He uses the heels of his palm to push her back. “Chal, what the hell?”

            She’s crying again and smiling still and Sam wonders when she got so erratic. The answer is easy enough, though. She started acting weird when John showed up, when she got her crush. If this is what women act like when they’re in love, he’s glad she’s waited so long to date, and that he likes dudes. “I’m just happy.”

            “You’re happy we saved the waheela?”

            “Yes, Sam.”

            “Okay, so you’re not mad?”

            “No.”

            He blinks at her. She blinks back. “I’m going to finish making dinner,” he says slowly as though dealing with a crazy person, which he feels that he might be.

            “I am going to bring Cujo into its new home.” She nods at him and then leaves him standing there in the kitchen befuddled and smelling of garlic.

 

            **Don’t kill me**.

            The text is from Sam and Dean knows instantly what it means. Hell, it’s been amazing that the kid has managed to keep the damn waheela secret for this long. There’s no way that John would fail to notice Dean hiding something for nine days. Of course, Dean’s dad has that freaky marine paranoia going on that contributes so much to his being a good hunter. At the moment, Dad’s scribbling down notes from a book he’s studying. Normally after checking into a motel, they split off for their own rooms and don’t see each other until morning, but this hunt is more of a night gig, and they’ll be leaving soon to investigate. Sleep will have to wait for sunrise, if they’re lucky.

            _What?_ Dean types, turns off the TV and waits for a response. He hasn’t really been paying attention to the movie anyway.

            **Cujo. Chal knows.**

 **** _I give you one task, Sam._

Dean isn’t mad. He is a touch concerned about how Sam is going to react when Chal puts Cujo down and even sad that the beast has to bite it, because it really is cute and Sam is pretty attached.

            **She was happy.**

_Run that by me again?_

**She brought it in and bathed it.**

            Dean re-reads the text then shakes his head. This is what moms are supposed to be like, he knows, all nurturing and stuff, but she should know better even if Sam doesn’t. He wonders why the Ackles family is so damned caring. It could have something to do with living in a home rather than on the road, but Dean suspects that maybe they just haven’t had to do that many awful things, like having to kill something that looks human, or torturing someone to get information out of the demon inside them, or choosing to let a child be bait so that a monster will never kill again; maybe they haven’t done those hunter things that leave him gasping for breath pouring with sweat in the middle of the night.

            **She won’t tell your dad.**

_She’d better not._

By this point, if Chal likes the beast, then there’s not a hell of a lot his dad is going to do about it. The two have spoken on the phone every day and not just simple calls to check in, but long conversations; Dean has heard his voice, not the words, but the voice, through the walls as they talk for hours. His dad is way too smitten to bitch about her new pet. Dean himself might get an earful, but Sam’s stupid impromptu pet won’t have anything to fear from Chal’s sweetheart.

            **How pissed? 1-10.**

_Just keep her quiet._

            **I will.**

 

            Sam misses a call from Dean while he’s in class and it drives him crazy to wait until the walk home to return it, but knowing that he’ll have more time to talk provides enough incentive for him to wait. They haven’t spoken since he told Dean about Chal discovering Cujo. He hadn’t even had the nerve to call Dean then, had used text messaging so that he wouldn’t have to hear the angry disappointment. Then, when the text messages coming in from Dean hadn’t seemed that mad, Sam worried that he’d fucked up and Dean was washing his hands of the matter and he’d wished he’d called so that he could at least gauge Dean’s temper by his voice.

            Dean is his speed dial 3 (Chal is 2) but pressing the button only takes him to Dean’s answering service. Sam lets out a sort of growl at the phone and walks the short route home in a huff.

 

            Chalendra wants to tell John about their boys’ act of mercy not because she thinks that John would understand (she’s quite certain he would not), but because she has never been prouder of Sam. She wants to say to him, “Look at what a kind-hearted human your son has grown into! Your strength and bravery are in him and they go so well with the lessons I have taught him!” This is why pride is a sin; she wants to take credit for how Sam has turned out, but that’s Sam’s glory to have, not hers; her role was important, but in the end, his actions are his responsibility and no one else’s. And he chose to save the baby waheela, had saved it with his brother, uniting to give the orphaned creature a chance. She loves him so much and wants to shout to all that the boy she has raised from infancy is now a man with a good heart.

            So, hearing John’s voice this morning doesn’t cheer her, but frustrates her. He’s talking about the hunt that he and Dean were on the previous night and normally she’d be taking notes, asking questions. Instead, she’s staring at the cardboard boxes, still flat, that lay against the wall by the door and speculating about what John’s reaction would be to Cujo’s existence. Cujo itself is hiding, has been ever since she’d bathed it last night. Chal figures that soon enough it will uncover itself, the need for food and companionship an undeniable motivator in so many of God’s living creatures.

            “Chal, you there?” asks John.

            “Yes, sorry, I am looking at all the boxes that I must assemble to prepare for the move.” She’s sidestepping, but it’s a true enough statement.

            “If you need help, you know that…”

            She cuts him off. “Again, it’s fine. We will have movers for the difficult part.”

            “Have you told him that you’re going to Texas yet?”

            “Not yet. He’ll be pleased, but he has made the relocation choice often since he’s been older, and it won’t be too surprising for him.”

            John laughs. “You have such a soft spot for that boy.”        

            Chal has had a soft spot for Sam Winchester since the night that she rescued him.

 

Lawrence, Kansas – November 1983

When Raquel dies, Chalendra feels it, a shiver through her feathers, a piercing cry in her ear, a lightning strike down her spine. Raquel’s last words aren’t Enochian, aren’t even words, but a frenzy of images and emotions transmitted instantaneously to Chalendra. It’s enough, though, to get her moving, beating her wings as furiously as she ever has, to Earth. Saving her garrison-mate is out of the question, but saving the charge, the human child, that Chalendra can try to do. She saw the baby and the demons, felt the trap that closed around Raquel.

Chalendra arrives, frenetic energy mixing with fear and anger on the lawn of a suburban household. The last message she will ever receive from her dear garrison-mate clouds her mind, disorienting her with the thoughts that feel like her own. It takes her longer than it should to survey the situation. There, clustered around the street, five demons and a scattering of incapacitated humans, a sign that there had been more. They are dark blights on her vision, darker than the night, revoltingly unholy. Her sword is in hand.

Four lesser demons in a loose circle around a leader whom she recognizes as Azazel, temporary caretaker of Hell in Lucifer’s absence. His true form, the one crouching inside a human vessel, is a swirling mass of evil, frightening in its dark power. In the vessel’s hand is an angel blade, the one that so smoothly dispatched her superior, and in the other arm, a crying human infant. Chalendra doesn’t fear death; she fears failure. Though the rage within her demands revenge, now is not that time, for Azazel has the potential to overpower her by himself. She would stand no chance against him and five others.

Instead, she straightens her shoulders, flexes her wings, and flies sure as a meteor towards the child. It’s only meters away, but time stretches itself. One second becomes a life time. The demons see her, they reach out to stop her, dark forms coiling up around her. It burns where they touch her. Azazel lifts the angel sword and from underneath his raised arm, she grabs the child, tucking it protectively against herself. The minor demons grasp at her skin, her hair, anything that they can. If they managed to get her wings, she would be done for, but they miss. And Azazel’s sword misses, falling instead into the empty pocket of air in which she’d just been flying, because she’s already gone. She feels the wind from it though, or maybe she just imagines that. They try to follow her, but they can’t move fast enough, not at angel speed, though she isn’t able to go as fast as she would like, because she’s having to focus on an energy shield around the baby to protect it.

            It isn’t until she no longer feels their black claws behind her that she siphons some of her attention not just to flying, but to where she must go. Her destination had just been “away,” and now she must choose a place for this child, somewhere safe.

            In a cabin long deserted by the human that built it, high on a snowy peak, she takes refuge. She creates a fire in the stone chamber made for that very purpose. With a sigh, she sits in an old wooden rocking chair that also sighs as she leans back and studies the baby in her arms. This tiny human is to become half of the apocalypse, a vessel for Lucifer himself. He doesn’t look it. He has a red nose dripping with unsavory secretions and little fingers curled into angry little fists.

            Raquel, strongest of all the angels in the heavens, had been given the mission to protect the Winchester family, the future vessels of Michael and Lucifer, and she had failed. But on her passing, she had given Chalendra the details of that mission, bestowing it to her. Chalendra has a decision to make. She idly touches the baby’s snotty hands as she thinks. Azazel was trying to get Lucifer’s vessel early, perhaps to train him, though it had already been agreed upon by demons and angels alike to not exert their influence on the vessels. This was less of a truce and more of a fear on both sides of disrupting the grand scheme of things, fear of accidentally subverting the apocalypse by interference. Azazel, it seems, has gotten over this fear.

            Chalendra stops musing momentarily as the child, the future vessel, grips her finger. It’s a powerful grip for such a small mortal. She huffs, almost a laugh. “You are not alone, human infant. I am an angel and my Father has commanded us to care for your kind.”

            She is aware that human babies cannot communicate, so she doesn’t expect a reply and her expectations are met. Still, the hand remains tight around her finger and its mouth opens and shuts as though he’s trying to respond. She raises a quizzical eyebrow at the action, but nothing seems to come of it.

            She could communicate to the other angels what has happened. They would perhaps start a war with the demons or maybe just return the baby and post two guards. Either way, this poor vulnerable clingy mass of flesh and fat will be put back onto his track towards become Lucifer. She thinks, as she leans in close, watches his eyes grow wide with wonder, that it is a shame that he is just going to be fodder in the apocalyptic cannon. He seems rather sweet, in a gross way.

            What were to happen… No, she can’t think like that. She is a soldier and she has her duty. Still, her Father does want humans protected. He never decreed anything about treating them like pawns in a universal game of holy domination. “I have a decision to make and I am not pleased by the options,” she confides in the baby. It shivers. She raises on of her wings and folds it over the baby, providing a blanket. Finally, it releases her finger and grabs for her wing instead, and it begins to babble happily. A bubble forms of its saliva and pops as it “talks” in its undeveloped language. “That is my wing!” The baby laughs, tugging happily on the fluffy feathers. Chal frowns. “You are not taking my being an angel very seriously.”

            The fire flickers as a gust of outside wind comes down the chimney. Chalendra is quite certain the other angels won’t understand her decision. She isn’t even sure she understands it herself, but she’s sure that she has decided.  

 

Flint, Michigan – May 1999

            It isn’t until after dinner while Sam is browsing the internet that Dean calls back.

            “Hey!” Sam greets.

            “Hey,” says Dean.

            “I was in class.”

            “I was interviewing a witness.”

            Sam isn’t sure which sounds worse. “Did you get the info you needed?”

            “Kind of. I have no idea what Jack’s is and neither did my witness.”

            “Jack’s?”

            “Yeah, some place, thinking maybe it’s a bar.”

            “What city are you in?” asks Sam.

            “Westbrook, Maine.”

            “One sec. I’ll check the net for it.” Sam thrills at the opportunity to be helpful for Dean. He pulls up the search engine and types in “Jack’s and “Westbrook, Maine.” “Yeah, it’s a bar on Beechwood and Bridge.”

            “Hey, is it possible to see if there’s been any police involvement there recently?”

            “If it made the papers, definitely. Hold on.” It’s too easy for Sam to lose himself in the net. It’s like swimming, immersing himself completely in all that knowledge, and sometimes he has to remember to come up for air. “Yeah, looks like. A murder outside the club.”

            “Outside of it?”

            “That’s what the article says.” Sam can practically hear the wheels in Dean’s brain turning. He reads aloud the small article in its entirety. “Doesn’t fit?” he asks.

            “Maybe,” says Dean. “That’s really helpful, Sam. Thanks.”

            The praise is a pleasant touch on his ear. “No problem.”

            “It’s amazing how quick you can find all that out. You can find anything on the internet, huh? Heh. I bet you could find assloads of porn.” Sam, wisely, stays silent, but it makes no difference because a lack of response is as much as an admission. “You look at porn on the net, Sammy?”

            Damn Dean for making him blush from so many states away. He glares at the screen, but he’s picturing Dean’s smirk, knows that it’s there behind the phone line. Dean just confirms it when he laughs and Sam wants to hang up, but doesn’t.

            “Hm,” hums Dean. “What gets Sam Ackles off?”  

            Sam’s dick responds, just a pulse of attention, to the question much faster than his lips. Dean’s waiting this time, patience seemingly infinite when the reward is Sam’s embarrassment. “Normal stuff.”

            “What’s normal?”

            This is torture, slow painful death by humiliation. He doesn’t know that if he hangs up Dean will call back, but the temptation is there. Instead, he whines, “Dean!” like a parent would chastise a child for using a swear word.

            “Come on, Sam, there’s a whole world of porn out there. No such thing as normal.”

            Sam glances at his door, then the ceiling, imagining, incorrectly, that Chal is sitting on the other side of the wall listening. “Hold on,” he tells Dean. He rises from his computer chair, can’t believe that he is, and heads outside. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say (not the truth in a million years), but he knows whatever he does say he doesn’t want Chal to overhear. Not even the rain, just a drizzle, which Sam spies through the half round window built into the front door, keeps him inside

            Everything smells like rain, the lethargic wetness making the leaves droop and the grass slosh under his socked feet. Sam hadn’t wanted to stop for shoes; worried that the time he’s wasting getting to privacy is too long and Dean will lose interest, change the question, because even though it’s humiliating and he’d wanted Dean to stop, he also wanted him to continue, to press the issue until he has no choice but to confess.

            Sam climbs into the unlocked Ram and says into the phone, “back.”

            “Where’d you go?” asks Dean.

            “Truck.”

            “Aha.” Dean’s voice, amused, puts Sam in his place, the lame younger kid too embarrassed to talk about sex within earshot of his mommy. “Private. So?”

            “So, normal. One girl, one guy, in and out motion, the usual,” he lies. How can he mention getting off to man-on-man action to Dean, so ruggedly, unflinchingly, exasperatingly macho that he could be a cover model for Field and Stream? He waits for Dean to insist he give a better answer, because he’s sure that’s what’s coming. Instead, the line stays quiet. Sam offers, “There may be more of an emphasis on blowjobs,” and his hand finds his cheek, cools it with icy fingers.

            “What do you like about the blowjobs?” asks Dean.

            It’s a strange question, almost feels rhetorical (like asking what someone likes about being happy) but then Sam figures that Dean probably means what he likes in a scene that has blowjobs. “Uh, I guess I like their eyes. You know, when they’re looking up while they do it.”

            Dean sighs and again Sam’s dick lurches, just a twinge to let him know that it’s still there and can be of use at any moment should Sam require it. “Is it because they’re down below, looking up? Like, they’re doing it all for you? Worshipping your cock and doing it to please you?”

            Insta-rection. That’s what Lucas, a guy he’d hung out with in California, called it when he’d see a hot girl and get instantly hard. Well, now Sam is portraying the definition as surely as a dictionary entry and Lucas would find it all kinds of funny that he’s doing it because of a guy. Sam is so glad he’d gone to the car; maybe he’d instinctively known where Dean’s mind would go, how his words that had only hinted before would become overt, molesting his ear.

            “Yeah.” The word sounds strangled from him.

            “That’s a great feeling, isn’t it? Do you like having power over them?”

            Sam doesn’t know if he likes it because he’s never had power over anyone, especially in the sexual sense, but he likes Dean’s voice like this, deeper and almost scripted, like he’s sharing details of a recurring dream. If it turns Dean on, then it turns Sam on too, and that is why he says yes. It’s not because he’s had power fantasies, he hasn’t, or because he knows that’s something he likes from personal experience, he doesn’t, but because Dean wants him to say yes.

            “I bet the girls like that. Probably gets them all wet, having you take control of them like that.”

            Sam’s hand is roving and it shouldn’t be. He’s in Chal’s truck, not his bed, and though his breath and the rain outside have fogged up the windows, they’re still glass, still transparent. Here Dean is talking about control while Sam is trying to keep from publically exposing himself. Sam wants to hang up, wants to go hide in the shower and jerk off imagining Dean below him, eyes glittering, lustful emeralds, as Sam slides into his mouth. “I should go,” says Sam, because he doesn’t know what Dean wants from him. Is he talking dirty because he really does want to have phone sex? Is it all a game for Dean? See if he can make the desperate teenager touch himself on the phone?

            Surprisingly, Dean chuckles. “Okay, I’ll stop.”

 _Please don’t_ ,Sam’s mind begs, but Dean isn’t telepathic, so he changes his voice, changes topics, and Sam wants to smack himself on the forehead for making it stop. “I should probably be checking out that bar that you found. Thanks for that again, by the way. Gonna make it a lot easier to put the pieces together.”

            Sam doesn’t speak.

            Dean resumes, “So, would it be cool if I asked you to look up some more stuff? Not now, but in the future?”

            “Sure.”

            “Awesome. Well, I guess I’ll go get to saving people. Bye, Sammy.”

            “Goodbye, Dean.”

            Sam waits for Dean to end the call then stares at the numbers on the telephone. Eighteen minutes and forty seven seconds they’d been talking. Dean drove Sam crazy in less than twenty minutes.

           

            Cujo likes the boxes. She stands, paws grabbing the side of the boxes, and looks inside with unfettered excitement at each newspaper-wrapped trinket that Sam puts inside. Objects become new to the waheela just by the change in location and she investigates each with her nose, olfactory senses creating a blueprint of the contents of each ball of paper. Sam laughs at her. It’s impossible not to find the fluffy white ball of curiosity adorable.

            Chal looks up from her soldering, precise tool poised in midair over a relic she’s been tweaking. She observes the scene and laughs. “Jo is ready to move!”

            “Can’t say I blame her,” says Sam.

            Chal shakes her head. “I know. No more cold states for you.”

            “That’d be nice,” says Sam. He hasn’t told her that he plans to leave on his birthday, and only in part because he doesn’t know how exactly he’s going to accomplish that. He’s mostly worried about how hard she’s going to take it. They’ve always been a duo, united against the world, and while that’s the reason why he needs out ASAP, he knows she’ll have a hard time adjusting. “The only snow I want to see fall from now on is in _It’s a Wonderful Life_.”

            “John loves snow,” says Chal.

            For a second, Sam debates whether the excited puppy is cuter or his substitute mother. “Does he?” asks Sam. “What else does _John_ like?” He says John in a lovey, sing-song voice.

            Oblivious to his teasing, Chal tilts her head to the side and considers the, no doubt, long list of things she knows about John Winchester.

            “Chal, I was teasing you.”

            She looks confused. “About John?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh.” Her hands continue their work on the relic. After a minute passes, she speaks again. “He likes biographies. I’ve made a few recommendations.”

            Helen Forrest’s question, “How deep is the ocean?” resonates from the stereo, just background noise that Sam barely notices. He’s taping the Ann Arbor News around a statue of a fat squirrel and smiling at the lovesick fallen angel.

            “He also likes baseball. I haven’t been to a game since we were in Nevada.”

            “Chal, I don’t think pee-wee baseball counts.”

            She shrugs. “You played very well for a child; I didn’t find watching the game less entertaining for your ages.”

            A new sound fills the room, the insistent ring tone of the house phone. Sam sees the joy in her face, knows that she’s excited that it’s most likely John calling. She sets the soldering iron down carefully in its holder before rushing to answer.

            Sam shakes his head, then crushes a ball of newspaper and chucks it at Cujo’s head. It bounces off the fluff and Cujo happily chases it.

           

            It’s been four days since the incident with the blowjob interrogation and Dean is relieved as hell to see the kid’s name in the little phone window indicating an incoming call. He was sure he’d scared the brat off with the way he’d been going on about porn and control and shit that he shouldn’t have been. He’d been frisky that day and had gotten carried away, but Sam is a genuinely cool guy and it would really have sucked to run him off for good. He presses the green button on his cell phone and promises himself to be on his best behavior, regardless of whatever gutter topics flit through his mind.

            “Sammy!” he calls.

            “Hey, Dean. You free to talk?”

            “Oh man, you have no idea how free I am. Sittin’ in front of a Satanic church and waiting for something “suspicious.” Do you have any idea how many suspicious people go in and out of Satanic churches?”

            Sam laughs warmly. “Probably a lot.”  
            “Damn right a lot.” Dean can’t help smiling. He’s glad that Sam is still talking to him, forgiving his lapse of perviness. “What’s going on in Michigan?”

            “Just finished the first day of the last week of finals.”

            “All right! Then you’re out in the Texas sun!”

            “Your dad told you, huh?”

            “Yeah, he said that Chal does whatever you want.”

            “That’s not true.”

            Dean want to yank back the words because Sam sounds mad already, and it probably wasn’t something his dad planned on having Dean repeat to Sam. “Nah,” he tries to sound casual. “That’s just how it is to stick up his ass John Winchester. I’m lucky if he lets me take a piss when we’re driving eight hours.”

            “Yeah,” says Sam. “Well, it’s really important to her that we make _joint_ decisions. It’s always been that way.”

            “And she liked your idea to go to Texas, so that worked out for both of you.”

            Disaster averted, Sam sounds pleased again when he next speaks, and Dean relaxes. “Yep, Cujo was helping me pack boxes.”

            “Without thumbs? Impressive.”

            Sam laughs. “She smelled everything thoroughly. I think she could be a drug-sniffing waheela.”

            “Aha! I knew you and Chal were too relaxed! That’s how the Ackles family keeps so peace and love.”

            “Peace and love? The first time we met you was on a hunt, dumbass.”

            The Satanic couple entering the building are later than the others for the black mass, but that doesn’t mean that they are suspicious, even if the two take note of his car and its location across the street, and Dean might be making excuses in his head for why he isn’t getting off the phone with Sam right away. He figures the congregation of freaks can wait two damn minutes for him to finish his call.

            “Dude, only people smoking a hell of a lot of pot would think that being _vegetarian_ ,” he puts an added emphasis of disgust on the word, “was a good idea.”

            Sam laughs again, a slight chuckle that sounds a bit evil scientist. “Yeah, and we did _save_ the thing we were supposed to kill. Oh wait, that was you and me.”

            The female half of the Satanic couple emerges from the church. Long legs on spiky black heels propel her at what they call “power walking” speed towards Dean. “Uh, Sam, shit. I have to go.” He hangs up the phone without waiting for Sam’s goodbye. He has bigger issues to deal with. He rolls down his window and sticks an elbow out, wants to look relaxed though this dame is clearly not.

            “Hey there,” Dean greets the woman.

            Her face is all sharp features and bold makeup, might be friendly somewhere underneath the cosmetics and rage, but that isn’t the side she’s putting forward right now.

            “Get the fuck off church property!” she commands. Her hands wave in the air as she speaks. **Careful** , Dean thinks, **Your white trash is showing _._**

“Thought you people were all about recruiting for your dark lord?”

            “You’re thinking of Christians and you’re not a recruit.”

            Her hostility doesn’t bother him. Hell, Dad with a hangover is worse than this chick “Well, not with a welcome like that!” he says, smiling. He’s not sensing any conviction behind her anger, so he’s responding in kind, barely pretending to be offended.

            She tilts her head, considers him with eyelids heavy with black makeup. “Who do you work for?”

            Normally when people ask him that he’s in disguise – a repairman, an electrician, an insurance agent. There’s not much point to pretending that he’s a professional anything sitting in the impala in a t-shirt and jeans. “Independent contractor,” he says. It’s certainly as honest as he can get to the truth with a civilian. Of course, this chick probably isn’t a civilian, might not even be human, and if she isn’t, chances are good that she won’t know he’s a hunter for very long. “Do I have to be a CEO to sit in your parking lot?”

            The Satanist chick tries not to laugh. Her voice strains to sound threatening. She says, “We don’t care much for tourists.”

            “Must be why you’re not selling me postcards.”

            She shakes her head with a small smile. “Just go away. Seriously, or I’ll have to call the cops.”

He acts boldly then because doing so works out well for him so often. He reaches out a hand and places it on her arm just above her elbow. “What if I want to sight see just the tour guide?”

            It’s not even close to his best line but she licks her lip absent-mindedly, and the tell lets Dean know that he’s in.

 

            “Dean?”

            Sam blinks at the red digits on his clock. 4 am. He fists at his eyes with the hand not holding his cellphone, attempts to rub away the sleep.

            “Hey, Sammy.”

            “It’s four in the morning.” A ridiculously delayed flash of fear crosses his stomach, jolts him awake. “Are you okay?”

            “I am fan-fucking-tastic, Sammy. Just needed to say congratulations!”

            “Congratulations for what?”

            “It’s the last day of school!”

            Sam’s pleasure that Dean remembered is far, far overshadowed by annoyance. “You’re calling me at four in the morning.”

            “Yes, I am!”

            “I’m going back to sleep.”

            “No, wait! Talk to me, Sammy!”

            “Dean, I have school in like four hours!”

            “Please talk to me Sam. Tell me about Nick! Tell me about Cujo! Tell me… tell me about that shit I’m not supposed to ask you about.”

            Sam’s never heard Dean whine before and there’s a desperation to it that makes him think that it isn’t something that he often does. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

            “I don’t want to talk about me!” Dean yells. “Just… just distract me, Sam, please.”

            It doesn’t matter that he has no idea what he’s supposed to be distracting Dean from; Sam starts talking. He tells Dean about Cujo’s leash training (Chal’s idea) and the girl in his geography class who got caught cheating on her final and the books about necromancy that Chal found at a church sale and the time he bought chicken noodle soup from a vending machine and for years hadn’t been able to smell chicken broth without feeling nauseated. He hears dean laugh or grunt, know that he’s there and still listening. Dean doesn’t interrupt through his ramblings. Even with the late hour and the pressure of his bladder, it still feels good to be listened to. And Dean doesn’t know all these things, hasn’t heard Sam’s stories over and over again like Chal has.

            When Sam finally winds down, mouth starting to yawn instead of forming words, Dean whispers, “Thanks, Sammy.”

            “What happened?” Sam asks.

            “Had to be a hunter,” Dean replies. “Had to stop them. She was nice though, under that. It wasn’t her fault what they did. Well, it was, but she didn’t know it was wrong. She’d been raised that way.”

            San stomach tightens. Dean killed someone or something that his mind identified as female. “Were they hurting people?”

            “Oh yeah,” Dean’s lips flutter like a horse’s, air blasting his cell’s mic.

            “And now they aren’t,” Sam says, not asking.

            “I guess,” Dean says with reluctance, knows where Sam is going with his point even through his drunken haze.

            “Then it’s good that you were a hunter.”

            Dean makes a little sob, three parts pain, one part whiskey. “I hate these ones, Sam.”

            “I know,” soothes Sam, wishing that he could give the older boy a hug and offer him some comfort.

            “She was so soft and sweet.”

            Sam gets it then, why Dean is drunk dialing him. Dean slept with the woman he had to kill. Sam’s sure he’s never felt such misplaced jealousy before. It’s petty, envying a dead woman, and completely inappropriate to the moment, to the suffering that Dean is going through, and to the deceased.

            “Her neck was ticklish. She giggled when I kissed it.” Sam doesn’t want to hear this, is about to suggest they hang up when Dean squeaks out, “I shot her in the heart.”

            “Dean,” Sam breathes, sympathy stealing his air.

            “Yeah, I know, I had to. Whatever. I just wish the bad guys were always bad guys, obvious ones like Darth Vader. I can’t handle it when they’re soft and sweet and good and evil at the same time.” A sniffle snitches on Dean, lets Sam know that he’s tearing up or maybe full-on crying. Then, he laughs. “Fuck whiskey, man.”

            “Seems more like whiskey’s fucking you tonight.”

            Dean snorts. “Yeah well, I just wanted to call and wish you good luck on your last day of school.”

            Sam’s bladder is happy that the conversation is drawing to a close and so is his heart, because he can’t stand hearing Dean hurt like he is. “Thanks, Dean.”

            “All right, night Danny Boy.”

            “Hey, Dean.” Sam pauses, knows that what he’s thinking is really embarrassingly cheesy, and hopes that Dean’s too drunk to hold it against him. “You’re brave for helping people even when it’s hard.”

            Dean doesn’t respond, just says goodnight again.

            “Night, Dean,” Sam says and closes his phone. He glares at the lightening sky and the impatient clock before shutting his eyes and trying to get at least some sleep before class.

 

            The packing officially commences, the past week merely a warm-up. Cujo is growing more uncomfortable about her environment with each wrapped piece of furniture and every stacked box. Chal has the 80’s station on and she’s singing with impressive volume, Madonna lyrics sounding way more blasphemous on the former angel’s lips. Sam has the back claw of a hammer to the wall as he pops out nails that formerly held the large gold-frame mirror and his hips shimmy slightly from side to side with the beat.

            Sam laughs at her when she attempts a high note and misses it entirely. Singing was never a talent she possessed, but the lack has never hindered her attempts.

            For a second, her mind calls up her dear garrison-mate Thomas, his lovely voice and his appreciation for what humans call “low-brow” humor. “I hope Thomas has had the chance to hear Madonna. He would love her.”

“Yeah?” asks Sam, encouraging her to continue. She knows that he likes to hear about heaven and its host, but the bittersweet taste that accompanies voicing those memories often deters her.

            “Thomas sings bawdy songs too.”

            Sam set down the hammer and the crooked thick nails, flicks off a black spot of something stuck to his hand. “Yeah, but what’s bawdy to an angel? Partridge Family jokes?”

            “Angels are hardly the saints humans care to paint us as,” she reminds him. Though Chal has never met an angel that doesn’t feel superior to humankind, she’s found many that are just as flawed as the wingless mortals of Earth, just as ready to let emotions guide them to make bad choices. “I still remember his favorite; shall I?”

            He cocks his head expectantly, giving tacit permission with his attentive posture.

            “Oh, but it’s in Enochian.”

            “So?” asks Sam. “I can understand Enochian.”

            Chal can feel the guilt that leaps onto her face. “I haven’t taught you the kind of words that you would need to know to understand the song.”

            “Chal!” He chides happily.

            “Give me a minute to consider how it would translate. I might not be able to make it all rhyme.”

            “It rhymes?” he asks while lifting three boxes into one stack near the fireplace.

            “Persephone, birthing hips and curving waist

            Could use more than a pomegranate to taste

            No matter if called Hercules or Heracles

            He was still the best upon his knees”

            Sam’s laughter is immediate and intense. He actually grips the back of the sofa to stay upright. Chal’s suspicion that his reaction is less about the lyrics and more about her singing them is confirmed when he gasps out, “You know dirty limericks!”

            “Angelic dirty limericks,” she corrects. The song has eight more verses, four couplets, and even she begins to laugh when she attempts to translate an Enochian word pun about testicles. It’s embarrassing for reasons that she knows are human, specifically American, but it tickles her anyway, partially because of his amusement, greater than she’s seen in years, and partially because this is an aspect of her garrison that she has never before shared with her ward. When she finishes, he claps and she covers her face with a dirty hand. “That is Thomas’s, not mine,” she reminds him.

            “Then I hope to get the chance to meet Thomas someday.”

            **May that day never come** , she thinks. Thomas never had trouble following orders, never had twinges of conscience like she had, at least none that he voiced. Thomas would not have stolen away Sam, would have left the baby crying in his crib, blood-saturated future leaking down his throat and mother burning to ashes on the ceiling. She’d let her love for humanity, let the exaggerated sense of right and wrong, compel her actions. Fifteen years later and Chal still doesn’t know whether she’d shown weakness or strength that night, can’t even say whether it was the correct choice, but she’d definitely acted with compassion and, true to her nature, given everything she had to the path she’d chosen.

            They continue packing, Chal singing along with the radio and Sam occasionally chuckling and shaking his head at her, as though the song had been her invention. When the house phone rings, Cujo growls, high-pitched warble sounding dangerous to its wild ears. She wishes she could still communicate with animals, let the young thing know that the phone poses no threat. “Shh, Jo.”

            “It’s just John,” says Sam. Then, his cellphone begins to ring, perky ringtone chiming from the leg pocket of his shorts. For a second, Sam and Chal exchange a worried look before hurrying to answer. It could be coincidence, a solicitor and Dean or John and a wrong number, but the Winchesters are hunting demon today and that means it’s more dangerous, more likely to be the news that someone is hurt.

            Sam retrieves his cellphone and stabs at the green button. “Dean?” he asks.

            He hears Chal’s formal “Collins residence” greeting from the kitchen.

            “Sammy!” greets Dean, cheerful voice calming Sam immediately.

            He peeks into the kitchen, sees the way that Chal sort of oozes against the house phone, the way she hangs onto every word when it’s John talking. Sam rolls his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asks. He opens the door, starts to step outside when an excited waheela nearly trips him. “Hey!” he calls to her. She hasn’t gone far, just sniffing at the flowers in the yard, as though they are the most exotic perfume ever. “Stupid mutt.”

            “What did you call me?”

            “Not you, dumbass, Cujo. She’s out in the yard without her leash.” Sam should go back inside and get her leash, but he’s not going to. As long as he’s out with her, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Her nose always prevents her progress anyway. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was part hound.

            “I’ve got news,” says Dean enigmatically. This must be some good news; they’ve never called simultaneously before.

            Sam hoists himself atop the truck’s hood. From here he can keep an eye on Cujo and the rest of the yard. Part of him is going to miss the place, but that tends to pass quickly enough. Home is where his computer is.

            “You learned to read!” Sam jokes.

            “I could read Latin before you learned your ABCs.”

            “Hey, take your call outside!” snaps John from the background of the phone call. Sam hopes that John isn’t that grumpy to Chal. He’d liked John okay, but the guy has a higher bar to meet if he wants to date his surrogate mother.

            The phone makes bumped sounds and Sam hears a door closing. There’s a wind wherever Dean is, creating a white noise in the line.

            “Dad wants some privacy with Chal, you know what that means,” says Dean before cursing loudly. “Why the fuck is there a Lego on the ground?”

            “You at school?” asks Sam.

            After a few more interesting swear words, Dean answers. “Nah, a hotel. Some kid left a freakin’ white Lego here. They’re sharp, man!”

            “I remember,” agrees Sam. He’d been pretty good about putting away his toys after playing with them, but there was always an errant block or two that missed pickup and sometimes they became found again by the flat of his foot. “Why are you walking around barefoot?”

            “I’ve got socks on and I didn’t know that Dad was gonna toss me out of the room so that he can have phone sex with your mom.”

            “So, about your news…”

            Dean laughs. “That’s my boy, always dodging the sex talk.”

            “When it’s about my mom, yeah.”

            “And when it’s about you,” points out Dean.

            Sam can’t help but feel this is not a good time to discuss their borderline phone sex, nonetheless, he feels the need to defend himself. “Maybe I’m just not much of a talker.”

            “I don’t buy that for a second. You never shut your damned mouth.”

            “Well, dude, some things you talk about and some things you just do.”

            “More a man of action?” Sam can hear Dean’s smile. He walked into that one.

            “Guess you’ll have to find out,” Sam hears himself say. Oh God. He’d flirted back, hadn’t meant to. It’s one thing for to Dean to drop lines like that, Dean’s older, better-looking, and self-confident to the point of narcissism, but for Sam to do it either shows that he’s into Dean or trying to be like Dean, both true and both humiliating.

            “Oh yeah?” asks Dean. Sam’s height loses an inch. “You gonna show me the next time we meet, Sammy?”

            Sam, wisely, keeps his trap shut. Instead, he watches Cujo sniff around the tires of the truck, occasionally glancing up at him, perhaps suspecting that he’ll soon carry her back inside since she looks anxious.

            “Well, good thing that I’m going to be seeing you soon then.”

            “What?” asks Sam, heart pausing.

            “My news. Dad wants you two with us on this hunt in Missouri. It’s dealing with your specialty and since he knows you’re out of school, he thought maybe you and Chal could help us out.”

            “How does your dad know about my specialty?” Sam likes the idea of helping, freaking loves the opportunity to see Dean again, but he’s suspicious, knows that Chal wouldn’t put them in jeopardy by telling her new beau about the demon blood fueling his talents. Sure, he’d bragged abstractly once to Dean, but had he then told John?

            “Chal told him, said you could suck them out and waste ‘em without killing the host.”

            “Chal told him that?” Sam practically yells.

            “Yeah why? Is this more Secret Agent Daniel stuff?”

            Sam is freaking out. The phone is sweaty in his hand suddenly and he can’t catch a full breath. “Hey, you okay?” asks Dean.

            Sam doesn’t know what to believe. Years of hiding his powers, his name, moving from place to place trying to stay one step ahead of angels that might come for him, they overwhelm him. He can’t believe Chal would throw all that away, tell his deepest darkest secret to a hunter. Chal never trusts anyone but Sam, he’s furious that all it’s taken is a crush and now she’s letting loose their secrets like she’s hopping up on sodium pentothal.

            “What’s the problem?” asks Dean.

            “He’s gonna hunt me.”

            “Hunt you? Dad? Whoa, hold on there, Sam. No one’s gonna hunt you.”

            “Sure you will!” Sam exclaims. He’s not even sure what’s going on anymore.

            “Sam, you’re not a monster. So, you’ve got a little extra awesome. That just makes you Spiderman. You’re one of the good guys. Dad knows that. I know that.”

            He can’t handle this call. “I gotta go,” Sam says, clicking his phone shut.

            He jumps off the Ram and takes to the sidewalk. It’s a warm day, humid, the clouds heavy like eyes full of tears. Some days when he’s walking, he tries to guess about who people are just by the decorations in front of their houses. Right now, he might as well be walking with his eyes shut. He barely even hears the click of Cujo’s little claws behind him. His phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and stares at it, undecided until he opens it whether or not he’s going to answer. He does.

            Dean talks before he does. “Look Sam, I don’t really understand what’s happening, but everything is fine. I don’t think less of you for what Chal told Dad. Are you mad cause it wasn’t her place to tell? Because I can get that. Everyone has shit they don’t want people to know about them. Those things don’t make them bad people.”

            “Are any of your secrets as big as being able to kill demons with your mind?” Sam hisses. Sam’s angry at Chal; he knows he’s taking out his anger on the wrong person.

            “Yeah, but not as cool.”

            Sam slows, brisk near run now a normal walk. He breathes, focuses on the sky and the trees and the sign that reads “slow children,” a sign that always makes him think of baby turtles.

            “Is your secret that you like messing with guys’ heads?”

            “Uh,” Dean pauses. “That’s not a secret.”

            “Messing with my head?”

            “Again, not a secret. What’s your point, Sam?”

            “Nothing. I’m… I’m pissed at Chal and fucking misdirecting.”

            “Yeah, well, that’s fine cause I like talking about me. Wanna know one of my secrets, Sam?”

            Sam rubs his head. He already knows where this goes. This is where Dean says something hot and his body reacts and his brain gets confused about what Dean wants from him and what he wants from Dean, besides the obvious. “Not really.”

            “Well too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway. When I was twelve, I tried to gank myself.”

            Sam hadn’t been expecting that. He stops on the sidewalk. “What? Why?”

            “Told you your secret was cooler.”

            “Twelve?” Sam asks. That is so young to want to die.

            “Yeah, twelve. Got it into my head that I was a monster. I wasn’t though. Just like you aren’t.” Dean sighs. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sam, ever.”

            Sam believes him this time. “And your dad?”

            “He’d have to get through me.”

             “He could get through you.”

            Dean laughs. “Yeah, but it would slow him down.”

            “This is really weird, Dean. Chal is so big on the whole “joint decision” thing. Why would she just tell him?”

            “Do you actually want me to answer that?” asks Dean cautiously.

            “Yes.”

            Cujo circles him, then decides to chew on the small white metal wiring that old people raise around their lawns instead of fencing.

            “She knows that she can trust Dad and knows that you can help us track down the demon we’re looking for. Maybe she thinks that once we get it, Dad could settle down… with her.”

            “They haven’t even been on a date yet.” Of all the things that he could have picked to argue about, that shouldn’t be the one. There’s the fact that it doesn’t matter how much Chal trusts John if Sam doesn’t. That should be top priority. Yet, his words have revealed the true priority of his heart. “And I don’t know your dad. I know you.”

            “I’m kind of a less cool version of him. I mean, I’m still way cooler than you, but not as cool as him.”

            Reluctantly, Sam smiles. The water in his eyes, never actually formed into tears, dry with the wind.

            “So, when are we joining you guys?”

            Dean’s voice sounds excited. “Does that mean you’re in?”

            “Hell yeah, ganking demons is my specialty after all.”

           

            Chal is still talking in her room, presumably talking to John when Sam gets back. He heads straight to his computer chair, further imprinting an outline of his ass into the cushion, and puts his head into his lap, cradling it with his fingers. “Shit,” he sighs into the curtain created by his palms and bangs.

            Though there is still the looming issue of the possibility of John pretending to be accepting of Sam so that he can shoot him in the back of his head at the first opportunity, another serious problem is what is currently making Sam’s forehead throb with worry. He is going to see Dean for the first time since they started talking about blowjobs and bondage. He regrets it, the dirty talk, and doesn’t because he’s also excited. He doesn’t know how much of it Dean meant, how much was just the temptation of the phone, the detachment of faceless conversation pulling dirty words from Dean’s brain without associating them with Sam. “Oh man,” he sighs. Was any of what Dean’s been saying focused on him?  He has no idea, but now he will have to find out, see what he’s gotten himself into by answering Dean’s questions, by playing along with the game. Dean’s been pressing the issue, wanting to know Sam’s tastes, tossing out words that made Sam’s libido pulse. Sam wishes he could go back, retract the things he’s told Dean, isn’t ready to have Dean look at him after what he’s said, and certainly isn’t ready to do anything implied by stating those predilections. He just has to cling to the hope that he’s misread things, that Dean was just being playful and has no intent to follow through on seeing how much Sam likes blowjobs.

            Unable to deal anymore with the horrible worry knotting his stomach, Sam pulls out his Hunters comic. He knows that Dean will like it, and not just because he’s one of the characters, but because Dean had been so into his Nick comic. The surprised amazement on Dean’s face had made worthwhile all the hours of observing vagabonds, drawing lines, erasing them seconds later, and trying to keep his pencil still as he cried, emotions brought to the surface by the discovery of Nick’s sad past.

He’s barely had time to look at the comic when Chal knocks on his door. Sam hides the pages beneath a textbook. “Sam?” she asks.

            “Yeah?”

            She enters. Her face is alight. He smiles, unable to feel the same kind of free-spirited enjoyment of seeing the Winchesters again. And that’s a shame because their friendship could have been a good wholesome thing, would have been until his hormones, or maybe Dean’s, had pulled their relationship into something more complicated. “Did you hear?”

            Sam nods. “Yep.”

            Chalendra crosses to his bed and sits. His heart leaps into his throat momentarily until he remembers that he has, in fact, put away his absolute most private object, one that had only a few hours ago been serving as a rather convincing, for his creative mind at least, replacement for Dean’s dick. She speaks and Sam tries to relax his body language, feels guilty as a fox in a hen house. “We’re to meet on Monday at a diner called Shorty’s in Clever, Missouri. John says that the town is too small for us to miss each other.”

            “We could probably hear the Impala from here,” Sam jokes but his voice is strained.

            Chalendra, observer extraordinaire, jumps on it. “Are you upset?” she asks.

            The betrayal he’d felt chokes him for a minute and he coughs to clear his throat. “Chal, why did you tell John about my powers?”

            She shrugs, a movement so much more casual than he’d been expecting. He’d thought she’d at least feel guilty for ratting him out to a stranger, someone outside of their family unit of two, but no, she’s freaking shrugging. “It made sense to tell him what you can do, so that he knows how useful you can be on a hunt.” He glares at her, eyes feeling sunburned with anger. “Is that a problem?”

            “Is that a problem? Yeah, it’s a friggin’ problem, Chal. All my life it’s been about fake identities and moving around and now you’re just going to spill everything to some guy that you’ve got the hots for?”

            He hears Cujo in the hall outside the door, little feet shuffling her into the room to investigate the raised noises, to see if there’s something that she should be snapping her small yet long jaws at. Sam doesn’t even want to look at Chal right now, thinks that maybe he’ll cry. He focuses on his notepad, reads the list of items that he needs to pack away the day that they leave, things that are too important to box up in advance.

            “We can trust him, Sam. He’s a good man and he’s on nearly the same mission we are…”

            He interrupts her. “Shouldn’t it be up to _me_ to decide that? I mean, what happened to all that crap about mutual decisions? You didn’t even ask me if it was okay!”

            She reaches out her hand, touches it to his leg, and he looks at her. “I apologize. I know he can be trusted, so I revealed your ability to locate and eliminate demons.”

            “Have you told him about… what you are?”

            “What I was?” she asks bitterly. Sam knows that she misses her angelic existence every day, has always felt that she was terribly brave for embracing her humanity as she has. “No, I didn’t want him to doubt me when I told him that your ability is innate.”

             Sam pops his lips. “You didn’t want him to know you were lying, you mean.”

            Chal can’t object, because it’s true. “I also omitted mention of your telekinetic abilities.”

            Sam’s eyes close as he processes the information. ‘So, I’m just a freak born with an ability to kill demons.”

            “And to sense them. That seemed pivotal to share.”

            “Is he going to hunt me?” asks Sam.

            “Of course not. I would never let anyone hurt you. I am your guardian!” She seems appalled that he could doubt her ability to protect him. It’s almost as if she forgets that she no longer has the grace which makes it possible for her to do so.

            “Well, I don’t want him to try.”

            “He won’t. He trusts my judgment.”

            He smiles. It shouldn’t be comforting, her blind faith, but it sort of is. There may not be many social things that Chal is good at, but she’s freakin’ great at reading people. “Yeah, I get it.”

            She reaches over to him, places a hand on his knee. “How do you feel about doing the hunt with them?”

            He wants to lie, has never been able to lie well to Chal, not that he’s very good at lying in general. Instead, he leans on the truth, hoping that he won’t have to get into details. “Nervous.”

            She laughs and her hand grips tightly. “Oh good! I’m not only one!” Her relief manages to break through his tension and he laughs with her, feels lighter.

            “You’re just nervous about seeing your _boyfriend_ ,” he sing-songs.

            She opens her mouth but instead of objecting, sticks her knuckles between her teeth instead. “Is he my boyfriend?” she squeals.

            Sam’s lived with Chalendra for sixteen years and never seen her reduced to a mass of such silly excitement, not when a squirrel took a nut straight from her hand, not when Green Bay won the Super Bowl, not even when they’d discovered that the clown ghosts killing innocent children in Oregon were haunting an ice cream factory. He’s seen her in every sort of mood and been there for every major event in her life since he was a baby. This is a new side of her and rather than feel angry about that, he, for once, feels like he’s enjoying it with her. Chal’s first love.

            He takes her hands in his. “You’re really into him, aren’t you?”

            She nods rapidly, short dark eyelashes fluttering. “He’s John Winchester,” she says as though it’s an explanation.

            Sam recalls something Dean said the night they’d all had dinner. “The Winchesters are always an exception,” Dean had said, or something like that, and it seemed to be true. Awkward socially-stunted Chal finally likes a boy.

            “Do you think he likes me?”

            This time he doesn’t think she’s asking because she doesn’t know. He thinks she just wants to hear it. “Chal, he’s called like every day since he and Dean left. He likes you.”

            She squeals again and hugs him. He doesn’t fight her off, isn’t in the bad mood that seems to have settled on him years ago. He hugs her back, tries to keep this moment unselfish but can’t stop the little voice in the back of his head that asks, **but does Dean like me**?


	6. Father Thomas's Confession

            John hadn’t exaggerated about the small size, both in mileage and population, of Clever, Missouri. Unfinished or poorly paved roads lead to red barns and square industrial buildings, infrequent traffic lights sag sadly on bowed cables waiting to signal absent cars, and between small clusters of humble homes, highways lay prostrate, offering themselves for use, means of escaping the small-town life. For Chalendra, the city might as well be paved with gold, neon signs above each shop flashing their welcomes. It’s silly; she knows it is, to be this excited. She’s seeing John Winchester again today and she feels like she’s in a movie. She’s seen _Sixteen Candles_ and _Clueless_ and _A Walk to Remember_. She’s found the way the girls act when they’re “crushing” fascinating, suspected that there was something about this behavior that could provide a key to understanding human emotions. As she’d watched their attempts to secure the boy they liked, she never once expected that she’d feel the buzz, the warm electric feeling under the skin, of having a crush all for herself, never thought that just hearing a voice could remind her of what it was like to fly. It is invigorating and scary and unequivocally human.

            And Sam thinks John feels the same! She can’t imagine John squealing like she had last night so she thinks that, like anger, the emotion affects each individual differently. He has called frequently, as Sam pointed out, even the day that he’d tortured a demon for information though he’d been too tired, too emotionally-drained to talk long. He wanted her to know that he and Dean were okay. Her reply, “Of course you are; you are capable hunters” had made him laugh and when he hung up after saying a quick goodnight, she’d been quite unable to stop smiling, the sound of his laugh lifting the corners of her lips.

            “Chal,” Sam says. She finds it much harder than usual to pull herself from her thoughts to focus on him. “The tapping, man, it’s really annoying.”

            She stills her hand, presses the offending pointer fingers into the grey faux leather of the steering wheel. “Sorry.”

            “Maybe we should pull off and let you meditate a minute?”

            “I don’t want to be late.”

            “Chal, it’s three. They won’t even be here for another hour.”

            Chal can hear the humor in his voice, resents it. “He’ll be early,” she says confidently. She just wants to find Shorty’s, get an idea of its position in relation to this tiny, wonderful town, be ready for when he arrives, prepare herself for the physical presence of the rough affectionate voice to which she’s become habituated.

            Sam doesn’t press the issue, doesn’t need to because they’ve stumbled upon the designated meeting place, Shorty’s spelled out in large friendly orange letters on a white triangular sign. A squeak sneaks out of her, reminds her of the sound Sam’s raccoon Bandito would make when it saw spinach.

            She chooses one random spot in the empty parking lot and has a hand on the truck’s door handle when Sam stops her, grabbing her elbow gently. She looks at him questioningly. “I mean it Chal, try and center first.” He’s earnest and his concern brings back memories of when he was young, eyes large with concern and mostly brown as they are now.

            She nods, closes her eyes, forms her hands and fingers into the Namaskara mudra, the prayer mudra. Her thoughts rush like a waterfall, individual words and concepts occasionally separating from the stream, a spray of **John** , **Sam** , **Azazel** , and longer ideas like **keep him safe** and **what if I fall in love**. She visualizes it all, sees the green of the trees around the wild rapids, sees the thoughts in English and Enochian as they swim like salmon. She smells pine and algae, hears the crash of the water-thoughts on stones smoothed by the force.

            She breathes, tries to visualize the river becoming a stream becoming a creek and finally a small still pond. She can’t this time, is unable to push aside the butterflies flapping in her belly, unable to stop the excited river. But, it helps. When she opens her eyes, separates her palms, she feels more like herself, albeit a tightly wound version.

            Sam smiles at her. She returns it half-heartedly. “I couldn’t ground properly.”

            “Better a little than nothing,” he suggests. “At least you aren’t tapping anymore.”

            “Let’s check the place out,” she suggests.

            The time is 3:20 and the Ackles’ hunting unit secures the perimeter of the Shorty’s diner, locates its entrances and exits, confirms the lack of EMF on the reader, and covertly etches a warding spell above the door frame before 3:30. Then, they sit in a booth and order coffee, a perfectly normal mother and son driving through town.

 

            Dad had wanted them to split up. He’d suggested that Dean take the California demon while he met up with the Ackles’ in Missouri. When Dean had refused and laughed in his dad’s face, both very rare actions, John did not offer to take the California demon. Instead, sulky and resigned, he called Chal to let her know that they wanted assistance on a hunt. The demon in California would have to wait.

            Dean spots Sam first. “Sammy!” he calls and reaches out to hug the skinny hunter before he’s even standing, his long legs untangling from under the diner’s table. This automatic friendliness is so rare for Dean that he just enjoys it for a second, hugging someone he knows, someone that cares enough about him to allow it. He pulls away from Sam, turns to Chal who is still hugging his dad. “Stop hogging the Chal, Dad.”

            John glares at him. It’s obvious from his hold on the woman that he has no intention of listening to his son, but Chal wriggles away, happy to embrace Dean instead. He could practically purr from the warmth that the completely chaste comfortable hug generates in his chest.

            To their side, John reaches out to shake Sam’s hand. Dean can hear them exchange names as they shake, like businessmen instead of friends. He whispers in Chal’s ear, taking advantage of the distraction, “He’s been talking about you constantly.” When they part, her cheeks are red from his words but her eyes look grateful. “So, did you and Sam miss me?”

            Chalendra laughs. “Of course!”

            The pockets of her khaki cargo pants are full, hunting gear, Dean figures. She looks like a really obvious shoplifter. When she sits, she nudges the pockets, adjusting their content. John sits in the booth next to her like he’s got an invisible leash wrapped around his neck. In a way, Dean supposes, he does. Sam sits opposite the new couple and shimmies his narrow butt down so Dean will have room. Dean fucks up his politeness by launching himself into the booth, sitting as painfully close as he can and crushing Sam into the diner wall. Then, with a sweeping arm gesture as he says, “So, where are we heading after lunch?” his forearm smashes against Sam’s nose.

            The two scuffle, Sam pretending to mind Dean’s antics, gripping Dean’s arms and trying to pin them to the table. “Cut it out!” says Sam childishly.

            “You started it!” says Dean, a clear lie. “I was just trying to have a conversation.”

            His hands move quickly, escaping Sam’s clutches, but then Sam’s hands are back on his wrists again, never letting him free for more than a second or two. “You’ll have a conversation with the floor if you don’t cut it out!” threatens Sam.

            Surprisingly, it’s Chalendra that puts an end to the mock-fight. “Not at a place for dining!” she snaps in an angry tone that Dean hasn’t before heard.

            They stop immediately and John shakes his head, muttering, “Children…”

            “Sorry,” says Sam. From the sound of his voice and the glint of mischief still in his eyes, Dean knows he doesn’t mean it. Dean isn’t even going to try to apologize since he plans to annoy the kid again as soon as he can get away with it.

            The two may have stopped playing but their hips are still wedged together, miles of empty booth to Dean’s side.

            The waitress comes by then, unfazed by the immature behavior, looking pleased just to have customers, and takes the group’s orders.

            After she leaves, John speaks, volume low. “We’re going to head to The Church of the Immaculate Conception. That’s where our priest is.”

            “Priest?” asks Sam. He sounds surprised.

            “Father Thomas. What was told to me was that he’s been there thirty years and is quite content making trouble among his flock, sex scandals, missing devotees, those kinds of things.” His father isn’t whispering, that draws more attention not less, but he is quiet, his voice the same rumble as when he’s had one whiskey too many.

             “This information, of course, comes from an unreliable source,” says Chalendra. “How likely do you find it that your source was providing accurate information this time?”

            Dean doesn’t feel like Chal is second-guessing his father. It’s more like she’s trying to get an estimate about how on guard they need to be for an ambush. He hopes that his dad sees it that way, doesn’t really want to be there for their first lovers’ spat.

            “Very likely, I’d say. He was already quite…” John chooses his words carefully. “He’d had a rough time already and was quite happy when Father Thomas’s name was all he had to come up with.” Chal nods. Dean likes the way that she trusts his dad.

            Dean already knows this, had been there while they interrogated the whiny son of a bitch. Dad always tortures demon possession cases trying to find the yellow-eyed demon. The first time that he’d tried to help his dad with an interrogation, he couldn’t cut it, had run out of the barn and puked his guts out all over a patch of yellow dandelions. Dean hopes that Sammy never hears that story. It got better fast though, soon he could pour the acid-like holy water on a demon’s face, watch the steam come off, hear the cries of pain, and feel, not nothing, but less. When they are able to save the host body, that’s the best, almost feels like instant atonement.

            “And do you plan to see if these two can give you more names,” says Sam.

            Dean hasn’t known Sam long, hasn’t been able to watch his body language. The brevity and restrictions of communication don’t seem to matter because Dean can tell that Sam is none too happy with participating in torture, even demon torture.

            “That’s the plan,” says John, oblivious to or ignoring Sam’s reservations.

            “The person doesn’t…” Sam stops when the waitress returns bearing a large damp brown tray with heaps of nice smelling food. The conversation ceases as she distributes plates, pancakes for everyone, fruit for Sam and Chal, bacon for Dean and John. Before they eat, Sam and Chal put their hands together and bow their heads. Dean’s not a primitive; he knows what saying grace is, he just doesn’t know anyone that does it. It’s something that white picket fence people do, not guys that can bring down bear hybrids. Sam continues what he’d been saying before the waitress returned and before his display of religious piety. “The real person won’t get hurt.”

            The pancakes are hot though dry and the bacon is thin like paper but it’s a meal and Dean’s never been one to get uptight about food quality, so he’s been eating with Winchester gusto. After Sam’s words, an ultimatum, he thinks, they taste drier.

            “From what Chal says, that’ll be in your hands.”

            It’s like they’re fighting without words, with eyes alone, pupils narrowing like guns taking aim. Dean intercedes. “Well, it’ll be good to have some extra help. We don’t get to meet up with other hunters much.” This appears to work because after a few seconds, John lets the macho eye war drop.

            Chal makes small talk in between bites. She and Sam eat like they did at dinner, slowly and thoughtfully. When the check comes, Dad grabs it and pays at the small glass counter displaying mints and gum and candies for sale. Chalendra follows him, the leash of their adorable puppy love apparently working both ways.

            It’s with reluctance that he pulls himself from Sam’s side. The kid’s too young for half the shit that Dean’s been saying to him and all the way too young for the shit Dean’s been thinking. A little body to body contact like they’ve had in the booth isn’t pedo-creepy, just enjoyable. Besides, when Dean was Sam’s age, he’d already screwed his way through at least three towns. He stands, shifts from leg to leg, trying to get the blood flowing back into them again, the worst part of all the driving he does. Sam is climbing to his feet behind him, though Dean hasn’t given him much room. Sam elbows him in the side forcing the issue.

            “You’re a mean little guy, you know that?” he cries out, ruffles the shaggy man-mane that Sam wears.  

            Sam slaps the hand away. “Maybe you just bring out the worst in people!”

            “Damn right I do,” he replies, intention lacing his words, and, he hopes, his eyes. Sam catches it, looks away, embarrassed. Dean finds it girlish, adorable.

            “Coming?” Dad asks.

            Dean doesn’t even act busted as he joins their parents.

            Unspoken, Sam follows him to the Impala where Dean puts on some _Rolling Stones_. Baby follows the black Sierra Grande and his lips follow the lyrics. “I stuck around St. Petersburg…. When I saw it was a time for a change…So, Sammy, how do you do this demon killing thing?”

            Sam’s got his shoes off, kid has some crazy large feet, one leg under him and the other pressed to his chest with one arm. Though it looks like an uncomfortable position, Sam looks relaxed and happy. This goes out the window at Dean’s words. He swallows down some emotion that Dean can’t identify, probably could if he knew the context, but he doesn’t. “It’s a mind thing. Like spoon-bending, but with demons, not spoons.”

            “You can bend demons?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Sending them back to hell?” asks Dean.

            “No, sending them out of existence.”

            Dean’s eyes focus on the bright red of the Sierra Grande’s brake lights as they wait at an incredible useless traffic light. When he blinks, he can see the red behind his eyes. “And the human?” he asks.

            “Usually fine, unless the demon screwed up his body too much first.”

            “Shit,” says Dean, four letters encompassing a whole universe of emotion, excitement and surprise and awe and fear, all flitting through him. “That’s some powerful mojo, Sam.”

            Sam plays with the cuff of his sock, stretching it out and letting it snap slowly back. Dean watches the movement, can’t help it because even though he’s a driver and focused on following Dad, things that Sam does just interest him. “I know,” Sam says quietly.

            The ride is over too soon, not even two songs lengths, and they pull up in front of the church, next to the Sierra Grande.

            “Dean,” whispers Sam.

            Dean looks over at Sam who looks about three years younger than his age curled up on the seat the way he is and looking at him with those big hazel puppy dog eyes. It might just be Dean’s hero complex, but he wants to just wrap the kid up, put him somewhere safe where he won’t have to feel whatever negative emotion he’s feeling. “Yeah?”

            “I’m not a monster.”

 **Shit** , thinks Dean. “We’ve been over this. You already said you can’t kill people, right? Just Demons?” He needs the confirmation as badly as Sam needs consolation.

            “Just demons,” repeats Sam.

            “Then that not only makes you _not_ a monster, that makes you the hero of the hour, Sammy.” He puts a hand on Sam’s foot, squeezes the socked toes. “So, get your damn shoes on and let’s go gank us a demon.”

 

            Chal has prepared John, explained what Sam can do, but it still chills his blood to see the smoke obey Sam’s outstretched hand, to see a human, worse yet, a child, with the ability to do something so sinister and other-worldly. John knows on a level below even basic human intuition that it’s wrong, is repulsed by the display of this wicked power, the ability to control life and death without physical contact. The hunter instinct in him perceives it, and probably rightly so, as a threat, but it’s also Sam that’s doing this, idly taunting the cloud of demon  smoke with the threat of non-existence, and he can no more harm Sam than he can his own son.     He can’t comprehend how Chal can watch this, encourage it even. Her son’s “talent” is just as evil as the thing on which he’s using it.

            The smoke returns fully to the body and Demon Thomas roars.

            “I can kill you, not your host, but you. I can end you, not just send you back to Hell. Do you understand? Could you feel it?”

            Demon Thomas is angry but shaken, his brow bursting with sweat and his lips trembling. “Yes…” he growls, high voice pitched low.

            “So when my colleague asks you a question, I want you to make sure that the answer is the truth, not a lie and not a half-truth. Because, after you’ve answered, I’m going to be the one that decides whether I let him kick you out of the human you’ve been violating or…” Sam pauses for effect. “Stop your days of possession for good.”

            Demon Thomas asks, “So, a bit of information and you send me back to hell, but a bit of bad information and you kill me?” The question is congruent with everything that John has learned about demons. Demons like deals and they like fine print, probably created the concept, and Demon Thomas doesn’t want to get killed on a technicality.

            “You answer his questions, honestly and completely, and I will not kill you.”

            “How many does your _colleague_ have?” asks Demon Thomas mockingly. Everything demons do they do mockingly like the universe is just some big joke, death just a punch line.

            Sam doesn’t look at John when he asks in that dark angry voice, “How many?” but John knows the question is for him. He feels Sam’s demand for honesty affect him, even if it was directed at the demon. John tightens his jaw, feels the click of the bones in the joint. He hates the fear inside of him, the fear that he feels of this slip of a lad. “Just one,” says John.

            “I think I can handle answering one question honestly,” says Demon Thomas. He looks relieved.

            “I’m going to be right here to listen and _I_ make the final call on whether or not I think you’re telling the truth.” Sam steps back then, turns his body to allow John to step nearer to the devil’s trap. His thin teenage body is rigid, a new recruit at boot camp, and his eyes never leave the demon, not even to look at John as he steps up to do the job, to ask the question. John’s eyes do waver, however, stealing glances at Dean and Chalendra hoping to see horror in their eyes too, something that asks ‘when did Sam turn evil?’ Chal is focused, her eyes blank with duty. Dean’s face is covered with surprise and he offers John a shrug of his shoulders. The normality of the gesture and the familiarity of his son ground John, relieve him of the worry that he’s the only one freaking out about this.

            “I want to know where the yellow-eyed demon is.”

            Recognition of the name dashes across Demon Thomas’s black eyes. “Ah, the devotee!” he says.

            “Devotee?” John can’t help but ask.

            “Yes, that one is much more pious than I.” The demon laughs, heading tilting back to reveal his white collar.

            “Tell me where he is.”

            “I have no idea,” says Demon Thomas. John feels the disappointment, another layer of sand in his gut, because he can tell that the demon means it.

            Sam takes a step forward. Demon Thomas raises his palms. “I’m telling the truth! Look, I don’t exactly get out much. I’ve been in this body since the 70s!”

            “When is the last time you saw him?” John asks.

            “15th century, place called Orleans. He was hosting a, well, a sort of revival there, inviting demons, preaching the word, that sort of thing. There were a lot of angels congregating in France around then and so a lot of demons were scared. We priests make a killing off of fear.” Demon Thomas smiles then, looking around the room as though waiting for applause. He continues, seeing that his audience is less than amused. “I didn’t care much for his pitch, so I left. That’s the last time I’ve seen him.”

            “Angels,” says Dean, voice incredulous. “Really?”

            “What, you think it’s only the bad guys?” asks Father Thomas mockingly. “How can you not believe in angels?”

            Chalendra makes a sound and John looks at her. She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

            John notices that Sam’s looking at her now too, the first time he’s looked away from their prisoner. He has no idea what’s going on between the two of them, what they know, so he sticks to what he does know. “What was his pitch?” asks John. “What was he trying to get you to do?”

            “To worship the devil, of course. What else would you expect of demonic believers?”

            John frowns. So, the yellow-eyed demon is some sort of Satanic cult leader. It’s worse thinking that the thing that burned Mary, that killed or stole his infant son, that turned his whole life upside down, is nothing more than the demon equivalent of one of those scumbag devil worshippers that steal people’s cats for blood rituals while they smoke pot and listen to Ozzy backwards. He’s hurting again, more, because the focus of his fifteen year revenge mission is just some zealot.

            “So he hasn’t been in contact since then?” asks Sam. It’s a good question, John realizes, because Demon Thomas had specifically said that he hadn’t “seen” Yellow Eyes.

            Demon Thomas shakes his head. “Nope, but then, he’s not exactly my type of people.”

            “Who is?” asks John. “Give me another name, another demon, with his location, and I’ll exorcise you.” Dominos, thinks John. You get a name or two from the ones you exorcise and then you have your next target, a non-stop line of possibilities. Well, almost non-stop. Sometimes the demon won’t talk or lies. Then it’s back to stopping ghosts and werewolves and vampires while waiting for the trail to pick back up.

            “Who ratted me out?” asks Father Thomas.

            Sam snarls. “You answer the questions, not us. You’re the one in the trap and you’re going to give him the information he needs.”

            John recalls the boy who put his head down next to Chalendra, putting his hands together, and giving silent thanks for his dry pancakes. The one who was practically vibrating with happy, nervous energy when Dean agreed to play Monopoly. This Sam, the dangerous unnatural one, gives him the screaming heebies.

            Father Thomas nods. He gives them two names compete with where they can be found, seizing this opportunity, probably to get a little revenge on his associates. John will write them done once they finish the exorcism and get the body to a hospital. It’s always been hit or miss whether the possessed survives the exorcism, but with Sam’s disturbing but efficient torture method which doesn’t harm the body, John thinks that they’ll see the numbers tip dramatically in their favor.

            John pulls out his ritual book. He knows the words by heart, but it gives him something to look at besides the writhing screaming body and the tormented parasite that he’s removing. He flips open to the bookmarked page, but Sam speaks before he does. “It’s okay, you don’t need that,” Sam says to John.

            John looks in surprise at Sam.

            Father Thomas growls again, a sound of anger but not surprised anger. “We had a deal!”

            Sam shakes his head, a small smile touching his lips. “I don’t make deals with demons.”

            The black smoke swirls from the father’s open mouth, vomiting the evil thing out. Instead of swirling up through the ceiling or out the door or window, the mass in the air twirls faster and faster, growing exponentially smaller. The room feels oppressively evil and stifling, like all the oxygen is being used for whatever is happening to the demon. Eventually, there is only a tiny spot hovering above the body and when Sam’s palm closes, it vanishes, the evil life snuffed out completely.

            John doesn’t look at Sam’s eyes. He’s afraid that they’ll be black.


	7. Date Night

            The two hotel rooms, one for the Winchesters and one for the Ackleses, have a floor and three rooms between them but the atmosphere of each is a world apart.

            In 114, Dean watches a MASH episode while John goes over his notes from the day’s exceptional hunt, worried he might leave something out. The mini-coffee maker has completed its task, the smell strong in the air but the coffee itself sitting behind the glass, untasted. Dean picks at a scab on one of his knuckles then sticks his finger in his mouth when it starts to bleed. John glances at the clock, jolts a bit when he sees how late it’s gotten. The afternoon has gotten away from him somehow.

 

            In 211, Chalendra’s face just won’t stop being pink. She adds more foundation, a dull color that doesn’t match her skin, looks more like a mask than anything, as Sam watches from the doorway. It’s her first time wearing makeup; Sam, of course, insists that she doesn’t need to wear it now, but she is quite convinced that proper contemporary American mating rituals require her to wear makeup. She likes the mascara, the way that the little balls of black sit in the lashes like spiders. The lipstick feels sticky and she keeps catching herself before she wipes it off with the back of her hand. The eye shadow is subtle, a tan color that would match her skin if it wasn’t for the glitter.

            Sam pushes his hair back behind his ears for the fiftieth time in ten minutes. He doesn’t know John, doesn’t know if he’s a jerk or what. He does know that he’s not the ethereal entity that Chal seems to think he is, knows that he can’t walk on water. He’s afraid she’ll slip up and just casually mention that she used to be an angel. He’s afraid that John might make a move she’s not ready for. He’s afraid of a lot of things.

            “If he’s on his good behavior,” starts Sam, thinking that John had better be. “Then he will open all the doors for you so when you come to one, pause and give him time to open it.”

            She pets her mascara-stiff lashes. He’s holding her jacket, wringing it a bit like wet laundry. “Just because he pays doesn’t mean you owe him anything.” Chal may not be his mother by birth but he’s still totally embarrassed talking about this to her and he hopes that for once she’ll understand that he’s talking about sex without having to tell her that he’s talking about sex.

            “I owe him half of the meal,” she says and Sam wants to kick himself.

            “No, he’s paying. What I meant was that you don’t owe him any actions other than saying ‘thank you.’”

            When she blinks at him, the mascara makes her eyes look more clueless than usual. “So, I am not to repay the debt in any way.”

            “Correct,” Sam says firmly. “Just think of it as a no-strings gift.”

            “Alright,” she says. “What do I do if he wants to kiss me?”

            Sam rubs his forehead against the door frame. “Jeez, Chal, I don’t know. You two already kissed right?”

            “Many times!” she says happily. “But that wasn’t part of an officially designated date. I know that many movies advise against kissing on the first date.” As she has come to understand it, women who allow men to kiss them on first dates develop bad reputations, are thought of as promiscuous. She’s not sure why that should be a bad attribute to have, especially since the point of the films seem to be copulation, but she wants to do this as though she has always been human.

            “Use your best judgment. Just try and remember that you’ve only known him a month.” He wonders if she would give him the same advice about Dean. It’s possible that he’s being more mother hen than she would be. He can imagine her advice being something like “He’s John Winchester’s son, so he can be trusted.”

            “I do not like this lipstick,” she says frowning at her reflection.

            “Uh, maybe dilute it with some of the foundation? Oh, or can you use the eye shadow on your lips?”

 

            In 114, John’s just finished brushing his teeth and spritzing some cologne. “Well, I’m heading over.”

            “Don’t screw up,” says Dean.

            John flips him a thumbs up and heads out.   

 

            Dean shows up at his hotel room, duffel slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t ask for an invitation, brusquely bumps Sam’s shoulder as he comes in. “Hey, Sammy.”

            Sam closes the door and watches his handsome guest. Dean pulls up a trash can next to the small table where he unzips his duffel. From it he pulls a gun, a knife, and other assorted items that most people wouldn’t want to see a near-stranger pull out of a bag in a shared hotel room. Sam doesn’t mind as long as Dean meant what he said about being okay with his special powers, but then, he has plenty of weapons himself in the suitcase currently flopped open on the luggage rack.

            Rather than hover by the door and stare at Dean, he goes back to sitting on the bed as he had been before he showed up, three pillows stacked behind him and dubiously crisp top comforter tossed on the floor. “Hey, thanks for talking to your dad.”

            Sam’s alone with Dean in a hotel room, which means that he’s freaking out. He’s trying to be cool about it, trying to mirror Dean who always seems so sure of himself, like surroundings and situations don’t affect him, like he’s confident enough to bring his own sphere of cool around him. The room smells like cigarettes and cleaning supplies.

            “Yeah, no problem. I like Chal. She deserves to have an awesome date.”

            His fingertips stroke the remote control absent-mindedly, like he sometimes pets Cujo. He is deliberately not tapping his fingers or wiggling his toes, keeping his body posture as relaxed as he can.

             “It’s her first.”

            Dean looks up from unpacking the duffel. “You really think so?”

            Sam nods. “I know so.”

            Underneath their conversation is a high-pitched electronic whine. Sam covers one ear and then the other to make sure it’s not just his head making a ringing sound. That used to happen when he was younger after he evaporated a demon. He got headaches too. But, he is too strong for those side-effects now. It must be a lamp or perhaps the TV from the room over.

            “Huh,” grunts Dean, considering. “Well, hope my dad makes it a good one then.”

            Sam nods, fingers still tickling the remote. Dean’s finished spreading the contents of the bag onto the dresser next to the TV screen. He upends the empty duffel over the trash can. Particles, powder, dust, crumbs all tumble out. Then he starts returning the items into the duffel, handling the weapons gingerly.

            “Was your first one good?” asks Dean.

            “My first date?” croaks Sam, his voice choosing the single worst moment to crack. He wants to sink into the bed and have it swallow him up. Dean doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even stop packing. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Would’ve probably been better if her mom hadn’t died at the end of it, but the first half was good.”

            Sam half-expects that Dean is tuning him out, but the look of sympathetic horror on Dean’s face assures him that he does, in fact,  have his attention. “Hell, dude, that’s not a good date! That’s pretty much the worst date, actually.”

            Sam laughs from his nose. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

            Dean zips the duffel, sets it on the floor by the door and sits at the bottom of the bed that Sam’s occupying. He’s rubbing his eyes, looks tired. “That wasn’t quite where I was thinking the conversation would go.” Dean’s hand reaches out and rests on Sam’s ankle. “Sorry man, that’s a bad time.”

            Sam shrugs. “Hunter’s life,” he says. He isn’t thinking of Amy right now or what happened to her mom. He’s too busy feeling the touch on his ankle, thanking God above that he’d taken off his socks so that there is nothing between Dean’s skin and his own. He likes the way his answer sounds though, rugged and tough, like Dean.

            “Psh. Tell me about it. Hunters can’t stay in one place too long or they’d get buried by their own baggage.” The fingertip of Dean’s pointer finger traces a line down the bridge of Sam’s foot. Sam shivers. It doesn’t tickle, just feels really nice. “Have you had a good date?”

            Sam wants to say yes, but he hasn’t. Amy had been his first kiss and, as Dean had pointed out, that had been the worst date ever. Then he had fooled around with Todd, but that hadn’t been a date so much as desperate groping behind the Piggly Wiggly. Neither had been dinner and a movie. “No, I guess not.”

            The devious dancer that is Dean’s finger moves again, dips between Sam’s toes, the nail a feather-light scratch on the delicate skin there. Sam bites his lip, is still biting his lip when Dean looks up at him, sly amusement in the scrunch of his eyelids. “You’ve got some big feet, Sammy. I bet you’re gonna be really tall.”

            “Already six one,” mumbles Sam, insulted by the reminder of his age.

            “Yeah?” asks Dean. The finger moves to the sole of his foot, the part that should be ticklish, especially with the unreal lightness of the touch. It doesn’t tickle or maybe he’s too turned on to tell anymore.

            Dean touching him like this feels like foreplay. Whether that’s Dean’s intention or not, because Sam truly can’t tell, it still feels like the start of something and he hopes that these are the light caresses of a lover and not the absent-minded touches of a friend, though really, he could use either. He can hear conversation from the wall behind his head, wonders if anyone can hear them, wonders if they’ll do anything worth overhearing.

            “I bet you’ll get taller.” He runs his thumb along the bottom-most part of the sole, presses his fingertips to the pads under the toes. Dean’s watching his face. “You still have to grow into these,” he says, sliding slowly off the bed, his hand never leaving Sam’s foot, eyes never leaving Sam’s face. Then, Dean is…

            “God…” The word escapes without Sam’s permission, without any thought because he can’t think. Dean is licking at the parts of the sole not covered by fingers, using his hand as a sort of stencil for the trail of his tongue.

            “Close, but the name is Dean.” Sam’s eyes have shut at some point but he opens them again, wants to see what it looks like when Dean licks him.

            The tongue, wet and warm, slips between Sam’s toes. That finally tickles a bit, but in such a nice way. Sam grips the mattress. He wonders when his foot became an erogenous zone, worries that somewhere along the way he’s become a foot fetishist because what Dean is doing right now is a million times hotter than Todd grabbing his dick while he’d been pressed up against a dumpster full of empty cardboard boxes. The green eyes watch him. He hears words in his head that Dean’s spoken over the phone, as clear as though he’s asking now. “What gets Sam Ackles off?” Sam’s imagined Dean says. ‘Your tongue,’ he hears his inner voice reply and then Dean sucks on his big toe and the inner voice sounds like a moan, like the moan his lips are releasing.

            Dean smiles, lips puffy and perfect around his toe. He presses a chaste kiss to it before saying, “That’s a nice sound.”

            “I’ve… no one has ever done that.” He hates that he’s winded and stuttering. It shows how embarrassingly inexperienced he is.

            “So, that probably means that no one has done that to the left one either?” asks Dean, already reaching for the other foot, shuffling on his knees and stretching his upper body over the bed to bring himself closer to it. 

            Dean takes the big toe of that foot into his mouth, rolls his tongue around it, and Sam moans again, can’t even feel too self-conscious because Dean had praised him for, said it was a nice sound. “Dean…” he whispers, tasting the name on his tongue.

            Fingernail scraping between toes, tongue quickly following, these are the things that he is aware of, the teeth nipping his toe pads and the thumb flicking his Achille’s tendon; he’s not even aware of the hotel room anymore, let alone the world outside it. “Got it right this time,” jokes Dean. It takes too long for Sam to get the joke and he’s too tightly wound to pretend to laugh. “So, what do you think of foot kinks?”

            It’s not about the foot, though. It’s about this amazingly handsome twenty-year-old getting on his knees to lick him and touch him. Sam feels worshipped, like a horny insecure god that’s never before been prayed to.

            Dean’s waiting for a response but Sam can’t spit out any of the thoughts swirling in his head because they would sound ridiculous on his tongue if he could manage to say them at all. “What you thinkin’, Sammy?” Dean asks with a strange mixture of concern and amusement. “Should I keep going?”

            Sam nods vigorously. He may not be sure if his aching dick can handle more, but he’s totally up for getting blue-balled if the alternative is Dean not licking him.

            Dean chuckles. “Or would Master prefer my tongue somewhere else?”

            In perhaps the single most embarrassing moment in Sam’s life, his throat decides to make a dolphin impression. Fire erupts in Sam’s cheeks and he covers his face while Dean straight out laughs. Dean had called him Master, and it was probably a joke, but he offered to lick elsewhere and Sam’s erection is painful, trapped inside a denim cage and his mind is exploding and if he’d wanted the bed to swallow him up earlier, well now he wanted the whole universe to suck him in, a black hole void of sound and light where he can hide from God himself.

            Sam feels the bed shift. He removes the hand covering his eyes and sees Dean climbing, hands and knees over him. Again there’s that amusement in Dean’s eyes, the amusement that seems to indicate that Sam has made an ass of himself, but even with the twinkle in the green depths, Dean is moving into a position more intimate, isn’t repulsed by Sam’s foolish naivety.

            Dean’s straddling him just below his crotch and smiling at him. “Hey.”

            “Hey,” says Sam, able to get out the word only because of its monosyllabic property.  

            “You doin’ okay?”

            Sam nods.

            Dean’s eyebrows lower. With a determined motion, he leans down, puts his face against Sam’s cheek. Sam’s overloaded with the three sensations – rough jawline against his smooth cheek, warm breath on his ear, and the warmth of Dean’s crotch against his leg. “As fun as this whole seducing the innocent is, I have to check in, okay Sammy?”

            Sam has no idea what he’s asking, nods anyway.

            “You’re sixteen and I’m pretty sure that’s legal here, but I’m gonna need more than those delicious squeaks. If you want me to suck you off…” he pauses, licks at Sam’s earlobe. Sam whimpers. “I’m going to need a nice clear yes. Without that, you don’t even have to say no, I’m gonna back off.” He pulls his head back, taking the wonderful warm lips with him, and Sam wants to object, wants to do something else other than whine like Cujo, but Dean’s just moving back so that he can look at him again. “So, what’s the answer, Sammy?”

            Dean smells like the Impala, open roads and sun-touched leather. He looks like the love child of a GQ model and a teamster. Then he acts like this, staggeringly considerate of Sam’s consent. There shouldn’t even be a need to ask, because he has it, oh he definitely has it. “Yes! God, Dean, yes!”

            The white of Dean’s smile is star-like. It only lasts a second, though, because soon his teeth are occupied with something else, pulling on the denim around the metal button of Sam’s jeans. Sam watches, amazed when the button pops up and Dean drags the zipper down, using his hands only to hold back the flaps of denim as his mouth drags the metal tab to its junction. Guys like Dean don’t exist outside of porn; Sam knows that! Or thought he knew it. Sam shimmies down so that he’s lying underneath Dean, so that it’s easier for Dean to remove his pants, which he does, slowly, pulling enough to lower them, but not remove them. He does this four times for the left leg and five times for the right, easing Sam’s legs out slowly. Then he does the same, but with more ease, with Sam’s boxers, which would normally be briefs but Sam had been optimistic enough about his chances with Dean to go for something more flattering, until Sam is left wearing only his shirt and even that doesn’t last long, Dean lifting his arms as though he’s incapable of doing it himself, and tugging the last clothing article off him as gently as the first.

            There isn’t much reason to think of his tattoos. They’ve been there longer than he can remember, so when Dean stares at all the marks on his chest and upper arms, he worries for a second that there’s something weird about him that Dean is seeing. Sam looks down, realizes what Dean’s looking at and relaxes.

            “Dude, you have a lot of tattoos.”

            “Protection sigils,” Sam says. He relishes that this is the first and might be the only time in his life he can offer such a simple explanation and expect to be understood.

            Then Dean’s finger is tracing the ink on the one above Sam’s heart, lightly like he’s done everything. “Anti-possession,” says Sam. When the finger moves over to the center, he says, “Anti….” He stops, had almost said Angel, changes it as quickly as he can on his tongue though it’s more of a three-point turn than U-turn. “Psychic detection.” The finger slides again, the delight in Dean’s eyes apparent. He names each tattoo’s purpose, doesn’t lie about any more of them. When Dean runs out of tattoos, his mouth replaces his finger, works backwards to the anti-possession tattoo.

            From there, his head lowering, Dean’s tongue follows the little trail of hairs, soft and almost blond, from Sam’s belly button down, working underneath the red desperate cock obstructing his path. He loops around the base, licks back up the trail. His finger skates in curls up Sam’s leg to his inner thigh. Sam squirms, cock nearly leaping for the touch. Instead, the hand moves to his balls, cups them, one thumb stroking over the skin.

            “Ngh.”

            Then Dean’s tongue is moving again, flat, not pointed, pressure firm and smooth as it slides from the caressing thumb on his balls over the happy trail’s bridge that is Sam’s cock. It passes over the head onto Sam’s stomach. After a quick loop around the navel, Dean returns to the leaking head with his whole mouth, sliding down in the slowest slickest way on Sam’s cock. Sam feels everything, the wet agile tongue, the stretched corners of lips, the hand still holding his balls, the gentle suction as Dean glides up again, the most overwhelming sensation his body has known. “Oh, oh, oh!” He can hear himself utter, voice fragile, body fragile, ready to break from need. It’s so good, so eye-openingly, life-changingly good. His hips move up and down with Dean’s mouth. The world is this up/down motion.

            Faster, that mouth, with those beautiful lips, moves. The hand around his balls tightens, not painfully but securely, the most sensitive parts of his body literally in the palm of Dean’s hands.

            “Dean!” he cries, feeling the orgasm building, feeling every muscle in his body clenching. “Oh God, Dean!”

            The suction lessens, the movement of Dean’s mouth lessens, but that isn’t going to stop Sam, just makes his body strain that much harder, seeking the friction and the warmth and the release. His hands are squeezing the mattress, the pillows, and finally, Dean’s head. Eight fingers unite behind Dean’s head, pull, as gently as he can in this frenzied berserker state of lust that he’s in. It doesn’t matter because Dean still chokes a bit, throat full of Sam’s cock. Dean groans and that really is all it takes, not the feel of the tip of cock on the back of throat, but the sound, the wonderful noise, the one that says that Dean is enjoying himself.

            Sam comes, orgasm punching the air from his body, doubling his vision, making every limb tremble and twitch. Sam comes like he didn’t know was possible, fingers scrambling desperately on the short hairs on Dean’s head, trying to get deeper, trying to merge with the mouth on him. Sam comes, Dean still nursing him, swallowing down what must be a porn amount of come and then, as it ebbs, licking the tip, the oh-so-sensitive tip, not one drop escaping the voracious mouth. Sam comes and it’s awesome.

 

            “Best head you’ve ever had?”

            “Hands down.”

            “Oh man, tell me that wasn’t your first head!”

            They’re lying shoulder to shoulder on the Cozy Inn bed, Sam’s bare feet bumping playfully against Dean’s socked feet. The ceiling has two sprinklers, one over each bed. They’re Dean’s buddies ever since he’d almost been barbecued to death in Wyoming. Not his finest moment, having failed to notice that the lampad had followed him back from her forest and he still doesn’t know how he missed the glow of her torch, the one that was supposed to drive men mad, but he had and he’d be a well-done hunter hold the onions if it hadn’t been for the sprinklers, his ugly metal allies.

            “That was not my first head,” Sam recites, making it perfectly clear that his words are not the truth.

            Dean had known the kid was green, but not necessarily that green. “Well, guess that explains why you came so fast.” He rolls onto his side, likes the view of Sam naked much more than the ceiling, metal comrades or not. He reaches out a hand and tweaks at a nipple. “And here I was hoping that was just cause of me.”

            Sam laughs, eyes glassy and body relaxed like a stoner. “Oh, it was definitely cause of you.”

            Unable to resist, mostly for reasons of symmetry, Dean’s hand seeks out the other nipple. Sam’s come is all he can taste, all he can smell, and his fingers are sticky with it, not from the act itself but from fondling Sam’s cock as it deflated, oozing like a burst water balloon. He relishes it, not much for the taste itself which is nearly sour, nor its consistency like drying Elmer’s glue, but for how it marks him, a lingering sign that Sam had been aroused by him, serviced by him, that he’d done a good job.

            “So, you gonna show me my bad ass comic book self?”

            “Oh! Yeah!” Sam practically jumps out of bed, lazy afterglow replaced by artistic enthusiasm. Dean notices each individual spine notch as Sam digs through his suitcase. He returns to the bed with a hard cased paper holder. It’s purple and pink plastic. Dean reaches out his hand for the girly thing, but Sam holds it away from him. “You have to wash your hands first.”

            “Whatever, dude, give me the comic.”

            “Nope,” Sam says stubbornly. “Soap first. Your hands are all sticky.”

            Dean grins. “I like them sticky.”

            His answer pleases Sam, but it doesn’t get Sam to hand over the case. “Choose,” he says.

            Dean huffs. “Fine. You hold them and I’ll look.”

            Sam looks surprised, then the shine of pleasure comes into his eyes. He lies next to Dean, opens the case, and pulls out what looks to be about twenty pages. “I haven’t filled in any of the dialogue yet.”

            Dean’s jaw slackens. He’s staring at himself. He knows Sam is good, but damn! This is him on the first page. He’s holding a knife, Sam’s knife from the night of the waheela hunt. He’s in the woods, the trees tangling up into the word “Hunters,” written in sharp, blade-like lettering. This sketched Dean is on the hunt, expecting an attack at any second, eyes searching, body tense.

            “Christ, kid, you didn’t tell me _I_ was your fucking cover!”  

            Sam doesn’t say anything.

            “This is me! I mean, it really looks like me!” His hand reaches out to touch the graphite face, but Sam moves the paper away. “How’d you even do that without a picture?”

            “My memory doesn’t suck,” Sam says modestly. His eyes are studying Dean’s reactions, feeding off of the intensity, the unadulterated awe. One corner of his lip is tucked under his teeth.

            “I’ll say,” says Dean, turning his face back to the art. “Next page.”

            More squares of the forest, illuminated by a flashlight beam. There’s a rectangle of erased pencil on the bottom of the first frame. Dean figures out that it’s marking out where the text will go. “Location?” he asks, pointing, but not touching the square.

            “Yeah, and year.”

            “Next page.”

            Sam obeys. Comic Dean is back, shining the light in the dark forest. He can’t get over how much this little drawn person resembles him. In the next box, Comic Dean hears a noise. He tears off into the woods chasing after it. Rocks scatter behind his feet as he runs uphill. “What’s the noise?” he asks.

            “A growl.”

            Dean smiles. “A waheela growl?”

            Sam turns the page.

            In the story, a woman appears, young and blonde. She’s on the other side of the waheela. Her frame is thin and weak, but her stance is strong, eyes flashing fire at the waheela. He’s amazed by how life-like she looks, that he can tell her personality from this one frame, this one still image. Even so, he hates that she’s there, because it’s Sam’s place. “You made yourself a chick?” he asks.

            “Does that look like me as a chick?”

            “No, but you were the one fighting that thing with me, not some blonde.” He doesn’t like seeing anyone else getting credit for that impressive kill, bringing down a bear with a knife.

            Sam purses his lips, thinking. “I don’t want to draw me. I don’t want to be in this.”

            “But you were, dude!”

            “Yeah, but I don’t want to be.”

            Dean can’t let that slide. He’s glaring at Sam now, knows that he is, but he wants to open up that skull and dig around because he’s completely lost. “What the hell does that mean?”

            At first, Sam can’t look at him, looks around him. He sets the page atop the pile. “I don’t like hunting.”

            Dean’s brain halts, brakes squealing to a halt. “But, you’re good at it.”

            “So?” asks Sam. “That’s not the only reason to do something.”

            “I know that,” says Dean, he can’t help feeling that when a person is as good at something as Sam is, where it’s an art form like these comic book pages, then it should be what they want to do. Then, there’s trying to wrap his head around not enjoying the hunt, the adrenaline rush when a monster sees him, when he knows that it’s going to be either him or the monster left alive, and the peacefulness after, of knowing that he’s done his best, that because of him some poor schmo is going to be able to kiss his children goodnight. Yeah, the making friends that you leave behind part sucks and sleeping in places that smell like ammonia and the not having a fridge with cereal and milk in it, cause man, he loves a good bowl of cereal, but it’s worth it. Sam doesn’t even go on the road, so he has all those things and he gets to hunt. That’s Dean’s ideal life, coming home from a day at the factory, eating some great food made by a great woman that will give him some great sex, and then, on weekends, getting machete deep into a crocotta, returning some missing kids to their folks, washing off the blood in his own hot shower, and then diving into a celebratory pie.

            “You don’t understand,” observes Sam.

            “Yeah, I guess not.”

            “I feel guilty.” He quickly qualifies the statement. “Oh, not when it’s a demon and it’s easier the less human they are, but it’s still a life that I’m taking. I don’t want to be an assassin. I don’t want death to play a part in my day-to-day life. I’d rather do things I can be proud of, things I can tell others about.”

            Dean looks back at the page with the blonde woman. “You can be proud of these, Sam. They’re amazing.”

            “Thanks,” says Sam. He picks the sheet back up.  “Next page?”

            Dean nods.

            They go through each page the same way, Dean taking in the incredible art, asking a question about the drawing or the plot, pointing out what he likes about it, and then moving on to the next page. Sam’s not finished and so the pages stop abruptly, disappointingly so.

            “That is a kick ass comic, man. I can’t wait to read it when it’s finished.”

Dean finds himself entranced by a freckle on Sam’s shoulder and runs a lazy tongue over it, no intent, just appreciation. But it does prompt Sam to ask, “How long do you think they’ll be gone?”

            Dean considers. His dad and Chal left at seven. He figures in a half hour drive in and out of Springfield, ninety minutes for dinner, and some make out time in the car before they return to their sons. “Ten if they don’t see a movie. One if they do. Nine if Dad makes an ass of himself.”

            Sam checks his watch. “Um, yeah, I do not want to be naked when they get back.”

            “You should probably put clothes on then,” suggests Dean. He’s still enjoying Sam’s shoulder, though he’s moving towards Sam’s neck with licks and nibbles. The skin beneath his mouth goose pimples. A quick glance down the bed confirms an awakening erection that will soon be hidden by loose-fitting jeans. Dean believes that to be a necessary evil, since he is also not a fan of Sam being naked when their parents get back. Just the slight visual of such a scene, his head between Sam’s legs with Dad and Chal standing horrified in the doorway, is enough to force his mouth to retreat from the cold but delicious pale skin.

            Sam puts away the comic, tucks it into a light jacket so that Chal won’t see it. Dean, still completely clothed, leafs through the Gideon bible as Sam pulls on his pants. He should know this thing by heart by now. He knows snippets, verses here and there, but only the way that someone picks up on choruses of songs they hear in stores or commercials.  

            “I hope they’re having a good time,” says Sam. “I probably should have had you tell your dad that Chal is vegetarian.”

            “He probably knows, dude. I mean, they talk every five minutes; it can’t all be phone sex.”

            “Ugh. Come on man, you’ve got to stop with all the parent sex jokes.” The shirt that Sam is putting back on has faded writing that he can’t quite read. It’s something that starts with an S and ends with an H. Dean’s brain decides that it says sammich, like Sam’s email address, though he knows the number of letters don’t match and, of course, that that would be a ridiculous word to put on a shirt. “It’s too creepy.”

            “Yeah, she’d probably think the same thing about you putting your dick down my throat,” Dean says, knowing the reaction he’ll get, the reddening of cheeks and shamed eyes, and yet still delighting in it when it comes, as though it’s unexpected. He already knows that getting under Sam’s skin is even more fun than getting his hands on it.

            Dressed, Sam returns to the bed, sits farther away from Dean, already trying to create the illusion that nothing has happened despite the absence of their parents. Dean frowns. He’s going to feel massively guilty if the sixteen-year-old regrets what they just did. He does not want to be the kid’s first sexual mistake. “Doin’ okay there?” he asks.

            Sam smiles and Dean knows it’s alright, his stomach buoying back up from the plunge it had taken. “Yeah, just trying to act normal.”

            “Psh! Good luck with that, nerd.”

            Dean accepts the pillow to his face with dignity.

 

            John gets back in the room he’s sharing with Dean at three. He’s practically tip-toeing though it makes him feel like a teenager. Though really, there hasn’t been a part of tonight that doesn’t make him feel like a teenager. Paying for dinner, stealing kisses in the movie theater, talking in a truck parked in front of a building with two people inside waiting to hear about how it went, all of it was so normal and so childish.

            He’s made it to the bathroom without turning on the light, blessed with great night vision, and he blinks at himself in the mirror after relieving himself of the piss he’d been holding since they’d pulled up to the Cozy Inn. He even looks younger, eyes bright and chin freshly shaved, though the stubble is coming back at its full-beard-in-a-week rate. His cheeks hurt from smiling, muscles so unused these days. He hasn’t smiled this much in one night since before Mary died.

            It should surprise him, that fifteen year near smile-free stretch, should make him wonder how anyone could go so long without feeling happiness, but because John Winchester is who he is, it makes him proud. He’s glad that he was able to Mary that much tribute to have so properly mourned for so long. She deserved that, to not have any other woman so much as catch his eye in fifteen years. It’s taken a lot of years for his grief to ebb enough for this new romance. Of course, he’s also been mourning an absent son as well. If it hadn’t been for Dean, John is certain his skull would have met bullet not long after that terrible night. He hadn’t lost everything, almost, but not everything, that night.

            After brushing his teeth, he makes his way from the bathroom to the bed. Dean was thoughtful enough to let him have the bed closest to the door as he knows his preference to be. He can’t hear Dean’s breathing, figures he’s probably awake since the boy is a trained fighter, alert and clever. “You up?”

            Dean rolls over. They can just barely see each other by the lights of the parking lot that shines in through the gap in the curtains. “Yep, not used to sleeping in the same room with someone anymore.”

            They’d stopped sharing rooms once Dean expressed an interest in bringing ladies back to them. John had been stupidly proud, stupid because he knows damn well that promiscuity isn’t a positive attribute, but still hadn’t been able to help it. He liked that his son was a catch, chip off the Winchester block, or whatever nonsense his Y-chromosome was interpreting as a reflection of his involvement in Dean’s actions.

            “I brought back leftovers if you feel like a bite.”

            “I could eat,” says Dean. He rises up slowly, scratching his head and rubbing his face. John snaps on the light while Dean does a mole impression.

            “It’s Mexican.”

            “Bueno.”  

            John changes into sweats and a t-shirt while Dean unwraps the plastic bag and examines the contents of the Styrofoam container. The smell of tamales espinaca fills the room, masks the stench of hotel that John still notices, even after all these years. He’d ordered the vegetarian dish for Chal’s sake, so that she wouldn’t feel grossed out by him eating dead carcass. He’d had no trouble scarfing it down; it was delicious, meat or no, but the portions were huge and, truth be told, he’d wanted to bring some back for Dean, in case he hadn’t had much to eat.

            “So, the food’s good,” Dean says, mouth full of cheese and corn. “How was the rest of the date?”

            John will not smile, refuses to have his son know that he’s crushing on Chal like she’s a Backstreet Boy and he’s a 15-year-old girl. “Went pretty good.”

            “Cool,” says Dean. After a minute, he says, “Sam was kinda worried.”

            “About what?”

            “Well, he’s under the impression that it was sorta her first date.”

            Something clicks into place in John’s mind. “Ever?” he asks. He hears Dean’s jaw and the slurp of food, the only noise in the room, and he flashes back over the indicators, things he’d taken to be signs of how infrequently she dated, realizing that it is probably true.

            “Yep. Think he’s right?”

            John says, “That’s probably not your place or his to be telling me.” He feels hurt, a bit, that Chal didn’t trust him enough to be forthcoming about it.

            He can see from Dean’s face that he knows the answer, that it really must have been Chalendra Ackles’s first date. Dean is smart enough not to say anything more on the topic.

            “What did you get up to?” John asks. He pulls a book from his duffel and climbs into bed.  

            “Went over and hung out with the kid.”

            He likes that Dean can still think of Sam as a kid after seeing the tremendous power that he used on the demon, but then, Dean’s been fond of Sam since the night they’d all met. He figures there’s some age camaraderie at play. For himself, he’s never going to look at Sam the same way again. Now he sees only a weapon, a kind-hearted one as Chal tells it, but John’s not going to forget the ice in the boy’s voice when he’d reneged his end of the bargain with the demon.

            “Yeah, do anything fun?”

            If he was to look at Dean, he might have noticed the quirk to his son’s mouth, as it is, he is trying to find where he’d left off in _Citizen Soldiers_. There’s no point in buying bookmarks since he just loses them anyway. These days he uses pieces of paper that then get lost amid the bound pages and serve no purpose.

            “Nah. What about you two? Movie?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Nice.”

            John finally finds the page he’s on and reads. Soon Dean is back under the covers, breathing heavy with sleep, though not snoring, and John feels safe allowing the smile to drift back onto his face.

 

 

            Through self-discipline only had Chalendra been able to enjoy the rest of their date after John suggested Sam join them in California. She compartmentalized the despair his “we could sure use Sam on the hunt” summoned forth in her, pushed aside the knowledge of this path’s inevitable, painful conclusion so that when he kissed her in the movie theater, tasting like popcorn and soda pop, her heart still soared with infatuated pleasure.

            Since the moment she’d seen John Winchester in that Michigan forest, she knew that her time with Sam was nearly over, knew as an angel that there was no such thing as coincidence, knew as a human that there was no stopping time. She’d trained Sam well and soon he will stand with his father and brother and confront the yellow-eyed demon Azazel.

            Her immediate reaction, uncertainty about Sam’s readiness, is an unreliable indicator, her assessment clouded by emotions. She wants to keep Sam, isn’t ready to see him fight Azazel, can’t stand the thought of him rejecting her once he discovers that she’s lied about his family being killed by the demon, the lie formed while she was still an angel, grace burning steadily weaker inside her. If he survives the battle with Azazel, leaving the much harder angelic struggle before him, he won’t need her and, worse, he won’t want her. If he dies or is persuaded by the demon’s silver-tongue, then her fall from Heaven will have been in vain.

            Now she’s met John Winchester, the man with the incorruptible soul, the man who will resist losing himself to evil through over one hundred years of torture. She wishes that she still had her angelic powers so that she can wrap her grace around that pure soul, interlace them like the stripes on a candy cane. Instead, he will reject her, condemn her for keeping his son from him all these years no matter how honorable her reasons. She stands on the edge of losing everything, finally paying the full price (losing her grace had been only a partial payment) for trying to reshape the destiny of the universe.

            So, she declined John’s offer to assist him in California, using the excuse of having to get the Texas household set up. It was selfish. She wants just a little more time to keep for hers the only human that has ever mattered. Just a little more time to hold her son before he serves his role, whatever he chooses that to entail, in the apocalypse.

 

            Sam’s a cocoon of warmth and contentment. He fights to stay asleep but lively thoughts scamper through his head, wiggling and barking to get his attention. ‘Dean,’ he thinks. He opens his eyes and sees the hotel room, roses and textured cream walls, dusty pink carpet, and a framed garden scene with splotches of watercolor flowers. He hears the rustle of a page turn.

            “What time is it?” he asks.

            “Ten.”

            He hadn’t meant to sleep so late but it took him so long to fall asleep, unable to stop the sex replays running through his mind. He’d finally rubbed one out, worried the whole time that Chal would choose that moment to walk in. She hadn’t, and he’d passed out with Dean’s name still vibrating on his lips. ”What time did you get back?”

            “3:17 am.”

            He lifts his head. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, elbows on her knees, staring down at the book kept open by her legs. Her medium-length hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Sam knows she doesn’t age, at least she hasn’t yet, that it’s quite possible that he will look older than she, but it feels a bit like that’s already happened. Her fingers are interlaced with her toes, her face a portrait of eagerness as she reads. “How was your date?”

            She looks around for her bookmark and, after finishing the page, slides it into place, before answering his question. “It was perfect!”

            “Just like in the movies?” he asks.

            “Yes.”

            Sam feels that something is not quite right about her attitude, that something hadn’t been perfect. “I kinda expected you to wake me up when you got back and fill me in with all the details.”

            Chal smiles, guilty. “I thought about it, but it was so late. Also, I thought it best that I ruminate over the events of the evening first, and decide how I felt about its individual components.”

            “And?”

            “I don’t like waiting for doors or having him pay.”

            Sam laughs. “Okay, chivalry doesn’t work on you.”

            “I liked the Mexican food and that he deliberately avoided a meat entrée. I like the way he chews with his mouth open and I like more that he didn’t do it last night.”

            “Very polite,” Sam notes.

            Chal’s head is tilted to the side, as though she’s trying to access the side of the brain that stores memories. Sam likes this quirk of hers, though usually it precedes a ridiculous idea like when at midnight on a school night, she had tipped her head to the side and suggested that they catch fireflies. She’d poked holes in jars, dumping out the food contents without regard while he’d put batteries in flashlights.

            “I didn’t like the movie. I like the way he kisses. I don’t like that he doesn’t make jokes as often as you used to. I like that…”

            Sam struggles to catch up, too many negations and his involvement suddenly coming up. “Hey wait, what do you mean, ‘as I used to?’”

            “Before you entered adolescence, you told me jokes, like the bee joke, all the time. Now you use sarcastic or teasing humor.”

            “What bee joke?”

            “Where did the bee go after his wedding? On his honeymoon!” She laughs a little and when she looks at him, Sam gets the impression that she’s not seeing him, but little him, the age of a kid that would think that joke is funny.

            “That’s a terrible joke,” he says, regrets it when her smile turns to a resigned one.

            “You didn’t always think so,” she says. “It was one of your favorites. But, that’s okay. The maturation process involves heavy psychological and physiological change. The things that amuse you are bound to change.”

            “But you miss my lame jokes?” he asks.

            Chal shrugs.

            “So, what did you guys do after the movie?” He’s almost afraid to ask but he wants to switch the conversation back to something that makes her happy.

            “We talked in the truck.”

            “Talked?” he teases.

            “Oh!” her face lights up. “You suspect we were kissing!” Her fingers drum happily on her knees. “No, just talking. We kissed in the theater.”

            “Look at you, making out in a theater. Were you in the back at least?”

            Her eyebrows scrunch down. “Why would that matter?”

            Sam laughs. He’s losing the fight with morning bladder, so he figures that it’s a good time to start the day. He pulls back the warm covers, stands, and stretches with exaggerated noises. “What time are they going to head to California?” Fear hits him suddenly. He’s been assuming that they’re still here, but what if they are already on the road and he didn’t get the chance to say goodbye?

            “They’re having breakfast now. I told them that I would call when you were awake so we could say our goodbyes.”

            “Cool,” he says.

            He conserves time and effort by peeing in the shower, spreading his legs wide to avoid it touching his feet. He whistles a bit, though normally he’s a quiet bather. As he’s rinsing off the last remaining suds, he hears a door close and figures that their hotel room is now invaded by Winchesters. It’s impossible to not get excited about knowing that Dean is near. He shuts off the water, hears muffled but understandable conversation as he towels himself off.

            “Thank you! I love to eat pancakes!” Chal gushes. Sam’s stomach growls, overhearing that there are leftovers to be had. Sometimes he thinks his stomach has better hearing than his ears.

            He’d brought in a change of clothes since it wasn’t like he and Chal had other changing areas. As he buttons his jeans, he thinks about how Dean had unbuttoned them so efficiently using only his mouth. He tells himself to stop thinking things like that with Chal right outside the room. The last thing he needs is to go out there looking guilty or horny.

            “We’ll take the 40 over,” says John. “Shouldn’t take too long, two, three days.”

            “Do you enjoy the driving too, Dean?” Chal asks.

            Dean, nervous about something if Sam has to guess from his voice alone, replies, “Yeah, nothing like the open road and a box of tapes.”

            “Tapes?” she asks.

            “Dean listens to cock rock on tape.”

            Sam snorts through his nose, not quite a laugh. He knows that Chal won’t know what cock rock is. She’s a jazz hound, all the way.

            “Cock rock?”

            Now he can’t help it. He laughs.

            “We’ve got a spy,” jokes John.

            Sam steps out into the sunlit hotel room, fully dressed, hair wet and dripping onto his shirt “Sorry, thin walls.” Dean is by the door. He looks fresh-faced, well-rested, and ready to get back to his Impala, to the open road and the thrill of the hunt. John and Chalendra are a unit, standing closely to each other in front of the TV. Chal has never been conventionally pretty, facial features a bit too exaggerated, demeanor too, well, inhuman, but right now in this perky, floral-printed hotel room, beside the first man to ever take on her on a date, she’s positively lovely.

            “We have pancakes!” Chal holds up a large bag transparent enough to reveal two Styrofoam containers.

            Sam thanks just John, because he feels that if he says thank you to Dean right now, it’ll be like he’s thanking him for last night. He’s having a hard enough time being with Dean, whose fingers can draw sounds from him like he’s a guitar and his nerve endings strings, in the same room as Chal. She’s an observer and if she wasn’t so distracted by John, she’d have already noticed how Dean makes him feel, would be able to see how Dean lights him up like a firework, a guilty sparkler crushing hard on a book of matches.    

            “Well, we ought to hit the road. It’ll take a while to hit California,” says John.

            “I wish you both luck on your mission,” she says properly, practically saluting with hunter professionalism.

            Sam catches the brief smile on John’s face, the one that precedes him reaching for Chal, pulling her into a hug. Sam wonders if John will miss Chal in the next however many weeks or months before they all see each other again. It strikes him then, as John and Chal embrace sweetly, just how big of an impact this could have on their lives.

            Dean speaks up and instinctively Sam looks, their eyes meeting for the first time this morning. “We’ll visit you two in San Antonio when we come through next.” Boldly, he winks.

            Their parents’ hug becomes a kiss, not a tonsil hickey one but not a peck either and Sam completely agrees with the sound of disgust that Dean makes, though he likes to think he’s too mature to emulate it. “I’d tell you guys to get a room, but…” jokes Dean.

             John ends the kiss and Chal steps back.

            The three men in the room have an advantage with social understanding common to the culture in which they were raised. Sure, the Winchesters can’t be said to live a normal existence, moving from place to place and thwarting evil where they can find it, but they still know what acceptable behavior is and can emulate it when the need arises. Chal, as a former angel lacks this fundamental human aspect. She is instinctively direct in all she does, her actions and her words alike. Heaven, Sam suspects, is a place full of people without tact. So, like a foreigner that’s lived in a new country for twenty years and never lost her accent, Chal behave as she would in her homeland. She bursts forth with question, voice loud like a child on stage during a school play. “John Winchester, are you my boyfriend?”

            Dean is the first to laugh, an abrupt ejaculation of sound, and Sam wants to be mad that someone is laughing at the closest person he’s ever had to a mother, but her question had been so sudden, so innocent and so, well, weird, that he cannot help but to laugh too, just a small traitorous giggle that he feels guilty for even before it touches the air.

            John Winchester, interrogation target, exorciser of demons and slayers of vampires, blushes, pretty much from the roots of his brown hair to where his neck tucks into his collar. His smile is nervous and uncertain, but to his credit, he doesn’t laugh. He lowers his head and volume, voice almost covered by Dean’s ebbing laughter, “Do you want me to be?”

            Chal nods. “Yes, please.”

            “Then, yes, I am.” John kisses her again, just a touch of lips together, a sealing of a deal, opens the door, throws a glare at Dean, and walks out of the hotel.

            Dean, human embodiment of amusement, throws up a wave. “Bye Chal, bye Danny boy.” He follows his father out.

            “Bye, Dean! Bye, John!” calls Sam, having almost forgotten his manners.

            Chal locks the door behind them. When she turns, her face smiling, she says, “I am a girlfriend.”

            Sam refuses to die from the cute.

 

            “We ever gonna pull off for the night?” asks Dean over the cell phone. It’s ten at night and they’ve been driving all day.

            “I was thinking of a room in Amarillo. How much you laggin’?”

            “I think I can survive another, what, thirty-five miles?”

            John doesn’t like the choice of the word “survive.” “If your eyes are shutting…”

            Dean interrupts. “Nope, eyes are fine. My ass is pretty numb but I’m fine with staying in Amarillo.”

“All right,” says John.

            “Quick question,” says Dean. John has to adjust his phone because he’d been about to close it. “John Winchester, are you my boyfriend?”

            John hangs up.


	8. Fond Absence

            The horizon is orange and red and grey, the night competing with the sun and winning. Dean’s eyes adjust as the sky becomes just boring black, clouds covering any stars worth seeing. He’s pulled off at a Motel 6. Let Dad fend for himself tonight; Dean feels too grumpy for company anyway. The metal railing of the second story has been painted red but it’s peeling and a grey/green shows beneath that. It’s not exactly a scenic spot, but Dean’s just here to use the bed, not to send postcards.

            He flips open his cell phone and rings Sam before he has time to debate whether or not it’s a good idea in his current bad mood. Turns out that it’s a great idea, because listening to Sam immediately start bitching cheers him immensely.

            “I am so sick of driving!”

            “Oh boo freakin’ hoo. Forgive my complete lack of sympathy.” His elbow is too sharp for the metal railing and instead of leaning on it, he decides to sit down there on the hard concrete of the building and hang his legs through the vertical bars. This kind of works, but it’s also rather pinchy because he’s too large for it.

            “I forgive you,” jokes Sam. “About the only thing that kept me from driving the Ram off a bridge was flashing back to Chal and your dad.”

            “Oh god, that was the funniest damned thing I’ve ever heard! And you have got to thank your mom for giving me something I can use against dad until I’m old and gray.”

            “I’ll pass it on.” Dean hears a creak and he wonders what Sam is doing. “So, our parents are a thing now. That’s weird right?”

            Dean agrees that it is weird, but it’s also awesome because his dad has never had a real girlfriend, just occasional road flings that he’s been pretty discreet about. Considering Chal’s inexperience, it’s probably good for her too. “Kinda weird, I guess. Does that make what we did incest? If so, that’s kind of hot. I could get on board with the whole step-brother action thing.”

            Sam laughs. “That’s gross, dude. Why do only ever think with your dick? Besides, they’re dating, not married.”

            “It could happen. Chalendra Winchester has a nice ring to it.”

            “The family that hunts together… No, that’s just weird. Your dad is not allowed to marry my mom.”

            “Why not?” Dean thinks his dad is probably too good for Chal, drinking problem or not, but that could just be a biased familial opinion. He’s almost hurt to hear Sam imply otherwise.

            “Well, for starters, we’d have to stop.”

            Dean grins, glad that Sam is showing reluctance about that. He hears the creak again. “What is that sound?” he asks, not letting the last thing Sam has said drift from his mind, but unable to keep not knowing.

            “Oh.” The sound stops. “You can hear that?”

            “Yeah, what the hell is it?”

            “Uh, nothing.”

            “Sammy….”

            “It’s the bed.” Dean hears the embarrassment but doesn’t understand it.

            “What are you doing to it?”

            Sam is quiet for a really long time, but Dean has learned that if he just waits long enough, he’ll answer. “Just kind of walking on it.”

            Dean imagines Sam, large bare feet treading across the hotel mattress, an occasional bounce to his step making it squeak. “Sam… are you jumping on the bed?”

            “Shut up.”

            Dean smiles.

             

            Sam stands in front of the black-eyed priest and though his back is to Dean, the expression of ice cold detachment in his hazel eyes is perfectly visible. That’s because this Sam is part memory and part dream, living breathing specter created from fresh events and deep-seated fantasies, emerging here in the seconds after waking, the moments after a touch below warm blankets, testing rigidity borne of sleep and youth and this image of Sam. Sam, arm raised making the demon scream, smoke struggling to get clear of the host, to return to a pain-free non-corporeal state.

            “I don’t make deals with demons.” Dean hears. Again, the careless cold, like the lick of an ice cube on his neck and the hot pull of his groin as his dick responds to the pitiless voice.

            Sam’s lips are a sneer. Apathetic disgust, such a volatile combination for Dean’s lust. He’s asleep, dreaming, he knows it, can feel his own hand covering his stiff cock even as he feels the hard wooden chair, the one that isn’t really there, under his ass, the one he’s bound to with chains one-tenth as cold as Sam’s voice. He half-heartedly struggles against them. They’re warded, devil’s traps etched into their tiny links.

            Dean cries out to Sam, “Don’t hurt me! I’ll do anything you say!” His half-unconscious mind sees no cliché in his words, knows only that phantom Sam, the dominating Sam that can control demons with will alone, likes it.

            “Anything?” Sam asks. His eyebrow rises.

            Dean’s so hot under his blanket, under the chains, under that look of Sam’s

            “Please,” Dean begs. “I want to serve you.”

            Sam’s face appears, faster than an eye blink, inches from Dean’s. The cold eyes are a fire. “It doesn’t matter what you want.”

            Dean whimpers. His hand moves, fisting his dick.

            “Because you _will_ serve me.” The hand that extracted Father Thomas rises and even though he’s feet away, Dean feels Sam’s fingers around his throat. Dean gasps for breath, gasps for the orgasm, reaches for it with all he’s got. “You exist to please me.”

            Dean is coming awake and coming in his hand and Sam is watching and his upper body is lifting off the bed and the chains drag his wrists and he’s inhaling and can’t breathe because he’s being choked or because this is the most intense orgasm of his life. His body shudders and he thrusts into his desperately stroking hand.

            He doesn’t want to be awake, would much rather keep that dream, just live in it all the time, but he is awake, the dream fading to memory, and the wet of his sweat and his come are uncomfortable. He kicks off the blanket and breathes roughly, hand lying in the glop between his legs.

            “Goddamn,” Dean says to the room. To Sam, absent though he may be, Sam says, “Gotta give you credit for that one, Kiddo.” After wiping his hand on the sheet, he leans over and types out a message on his phone.

_Dedicated today’s wank to you._

**Thanks? I’m flattered?**

 

 

            The yellow line stalks him, persistently appearing behind his eyelids as he settles in for his second night’s sleep on the road. Cujo licks her butt with gusto beside him. The sheets on the bed are over-starched and reek of bleach. It shouldn’t be possible to be less comfortable somewhere than a truck, but he is. In the truck, he has purpose. He’s driving to his new home in Texas and before that, his old home to liberate his waheela. Here in this Best Western, he’s just a guy needing a break from the yellow line.

            Sam climbs out of bed and pulls his cell phone off the charger.

            **“You awake?”** he texts.

            While he waits, he scratches behind Cujo’s ears. He’d been a stranger to her all over again when he showed up at the shed. Her foolish fluffy brain had been unable to retain the memory of his scent after only six days apart. She’d growled like the engine of a Vespa and bit his hand, not quite the gratitude he’d expected after driving 800 miles to collect her. He’d dropped her into the passenger seat which she quickly climbed underneath and just drove, too bitter about her unfriendly reception to bother trying to comfort her. It hadn’t even taken an hour before she was on the seat watching the cars go by with curious pink eyes. Now she seemed completely happy to be curled up next to him, all fear departed.

            Sam debates calling Dean, but it’s late and he doesn’t want to be responsible for Dean bringing anything less than his A game to a demon fight. Instead, he reads Margaret Weis for an hour and then sleeps shallowly until morning.

 

            The sound of a text message wakes him.

_I am now. What’s going on?_

**Just couldn’t sleep. No prob.**

_Aw, wanted a bedtime story?_

            And he hears from Dean again in the afternoon.

_Fried pickles rock._

**I’m not big on fried food.**

_Heathen._

            These small contacts help keep him sane while he’s driving, but by nightfall even Cujo seems just plain old done with being on the road. He painstakingly types out a message to Dean while driving, which he’s sure that Chal would not appreciate.

**How do you stand this? It’s all yellow line all day.**

_Cause I’m not a whiny bitch._

_Music._

**Still bored.**

            The ringing of Sam’s phone is the best sound he’s ever heard, especially since he figures that it’s Dean calling him. He’s right.

            “How can you be bored already? You’ve been driving, what, three days?”

            “Not all of us are drifters,” Sam says, cradling the phone with one hand and the wheel with the other. He wonders, briefly, if he could steer the wheel with his powers, but decides that it isn’t worth risking his life to try it out.

            “Obviously.”

            “So did you just call to rag on me?” It’s playful and pleasant. Sam’s never known anyone that’s made it just so easy to be around. He and Chal have good communication, but that’s more about honesty and familiarity, less about this mutual respect that they seem to have. Yeah, Dean calls him “kid” and stuff, but when they’d fought side by side, he’d felt that they were working together like partners.

            “Nope. I’m going to keep you from being bored.”

            “So, you’re going to put someone else on?” Sam says with a grin.

            “It’s me or nothin’.”

            “I suppose I’ll take it.”

            Dean asks, “So what are you wearing?”

            Sam doesn’t laugh, quickly replies, “A hoop skirt.”

            “Sexy. Do-si- do cowgirl!”

            “You’re an idiot.” Still, Sam grins. A sign advertising amazing pie off the next exit catches Sam’s attention.

            “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m wearing?”     

            “You’re wearing jeans and a black shirt, possibly with your leather jacket over it,” guesses Sam.

            “Wrong. Try again.”

            He figures this should be fairly easy to figure out, that he probably wasn’t that far off with his last guess. “Okay, jeans and a blue shirt.

            “Nope. That’s too much clothing. Try again.”

            “Just jeans, no shirt.”

            “Closer,” Dean says, voice dropping lower.

            Sam doesn’t know how he’s caught so by surprise by the turn of this phone call after what happened the last time that they were alone together, but he is. “You’re calling me in your underwear?

            “Closer.” Sam hasn’t had the opportunity to see Dean naked, but figures it’s a sight worth seeing. He imagines Dean’s broad shoulders, thinks that his back must look incredible, and his ass, probably his chest too; the mental list of probably amazing body parts lengthens as his imagination runs away with itself. “Hello?”

            “I’m here, just kind of dealing with that visual.” So is the steering wheel, since his brain can’t seem to handle driving and picturing Dean naked.

            “You know I’m messing with you right?”

            “I know, but it’s still a nice thought.”

            “Yeah? Like the thought of me talking to you with my dick hanging out?”

            Sam doesn’t want to encourage Dean’s ego, but he does want to encourage him to talk more about his dick. “If I said yes, you’d say “Of course, cause my dick is awesome.””

            “But I’d still like to hear you say it.”

            “Yeah, I like the thought,” Sam admits.  

            “Of course, my dick is awesome. What about you, Sammy? What would it take to get your dick out?” Dean’s tone is mischievous. The tone and the words are having the effect that he knows Dean is going for.

            “I’m driving.”

            That should put an end to the conversation, but this is Dean and Sam is already learning that the man is persistent.  “So what? Haven’t you ever rubbed one out while driving?

            “Can’t say that I have.”

            “You wanna?”

            Sam doesn’t know why Dean is so eager, doesn’t understand how he has managed to catch Dean’s attention.  It isn’t that Sam has low self-esteem, but he’s still in high school and loves Star Wars and Dean is just so, Dean.  “I don’t know.”

            “You tasted amazing. I didn’t tell you at the time, but your dick is perfect for sucking on. Nice big head. Do you remember the way it would catch on my mouth when I moved off it?” Oh god, Dean was talking dirty to him. Sam sneaks a peek at the empty lane beside him before sliding a hand over his jeans. A few words and he’s already getting hard. “That’s cause of that nice mushroom head you’ve got on it. You’re ribbed for pleasure. I could have sucked on you all night, might’ve too if it hadn’t been for the folks. I think you’d like it if I spent all night on your cock. My knees would get all sore and my hand would cramp up just for you.”

            Sam squeezes himself, imagination far too vivid to be doing this while driving. He pulls off to the side of the road, Dean’s words still standing out, even while he does so.

            “I’d spend so long on that fat head of yours that my lips would get sore and I’d want to take a break but you wouldn’t let me. You’d shove your cock down my throat, make me gag, like you did when you came. I loved that so fucking much, having your hands on me, making me take you down my throat. You could do that to me again. You could do it harder. Your fingers on the back of my head, just yanking me down, using my mouth just like you wanted. I fucking loved the feel of your come hitting the back of my throat. I didn’t care that I couldn’t breathe. I kinda liked that I couldn’t. It was like I was going to die going down on you, like the last thing I was ever gonna do. The last thing I was ever gonna taste was your come.

            “Is your dick out, Sammy?”

            “Not yet,” Sam admits. He turns off the engine. Cujo perks up, thinking they’re going to get out of the car for a while. He tries his best to ignore her gaze, grabs his coat from the back of the passenger seat instead.

            “What are you waiting for?” Dean asks.

            “I haven’t decided if I want to.”

            “You want to,” Dean says, certainty nearly a command.

            “Yeah?”

            “Want me to beg for it, Sammy? I will. Please Sam, please get your cock out. I want to put my mouth on you.”

            Sam’s embarrassed. He looks around the empty patch of road, tents the jacket over his lap. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

            “Not doin’ anything, Sam. You’re just letting me serve you. You just want me to get you off.”

            “Yeah,” sighs Sam. His finger yanks down on the zipper of his jeans. He adjusts, fiddling with the front of his boxers, popping his warm dick out, still hidden by jacket. He still feels exposed.

            “You out?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I knew you’d cave,” boasts Dean.

            “Dean, keep going.”

            “Yes, master.” The two words shouldn’t make his cock twitch, but they do. What gets Sam Ackles off? He likes hearing a hot guy call him master.

            “You want me to tell you why I dedicated my wank to you yesterday? Tell you what kind of things you were doing to me while I was sleeping? Oh, Sammy, you were wicked, had me all bound up like that demon in Clever. The chains were cold, but not even close to as cold as your voice. God, you were hot like that, when you were interrogating that demon.”

            Sam’s grip is loose, waiting for Dean to really get going before going to town on his cock. He’s so worked up, but he’s caught off guards by the implications of what Dean is saying. He asks, incredulous, “Me torturing demons gets you hot?”

            “It fucking made me crazy. I wanted to be the one in that chair. I wanted you to be speaking to me like that, like you could fucking snuff me out with a thought.”

            “That’s kind of messed up, Dean,” says Sam, hand slowing on his dick. He doesn’t want to be a buzz kill for this awesome impromptu phone sex, but between what he’s saying now and what he’s said earlier, it seems like Dean is mixing up foreplay and suicide.

            “You don’t like being powerful?”

            “I’m not powerful.”

            “Yeah, you are. You do it really well too. The way you gave that thing no room for argument, then the way you showed no mercy.”

            Sam hasn’t thought much about the demon-related part of the hunting trip, has been way too caught up in the aftermath, reminiscing about Dean’s mouth. It’s surprising to hear how his hunting looks from the outside and he worries suddenly about how he’s coming across as cruel to Dean who had been, apparently, an attentive witness. Demons are not deserving of mercy. They are twisted, depraved, murderers and rapists, and collectors of souls. He would no more think to show one mercy than he would to do the kinds of things that they do, hurt the people they take as victims. “It was just a demon,” he explains.

            “Oh, I’m not saying otherwise. I am talking about you, Sammy. You were amazing.” Sam wonders if it’s appropriate to say thank you, but the compliment is too much, acknowledging it would only make him seem like an ego-maniac.

            “And you want me to be cold to you?” he asks, steering the conversation back to what had led him to the side of the road, away from the praise that makes him uncomfortable, towards what makes him feel aroused. “You… you get off on that?”

            “Have and will. I want to see you do it again. I want you to do it to me. Just use me for hours. Just use me for a while, fuck my throat, and then stop. You know, I could wait on my knees for you until you wanted me again. You could draw or something, come and put your hard dick in my mouth and then go back to drawing. I could just wait there, like a sex toy for you, ready anytime.”

            He can picture it, the mixture of memory and imagination that Dean uses. He wants to do it again, wants to be rougher like Dean craves. He can feel the smooth wet mouth, hear the gagging sounds. His hand fists his cock, the jacket moving up and down, and Sam closes his eyes, pictures those green eyes looking up at him from between his legs. “What else can I do, Dean?”

            “You can do whatever you want to me. You want to fuck my ass, Sammy? You can. Your dick would feel amazing in my ass. Bet that nice big head would stretch me out good. Can you see it? The head of your dick pushing inside of me? I’d be all tight and warm and I wouldn’t make you wear a rubber. You’d feel every fucking part of me and I’d be begging you for more, begging you to fuck me hard, fuck me raw so that I couldn’t sit down the next day. And you’d fill me up good too, I know it. You came so much in my mouth and my throat. Want you to do that to my ass too, Sammy. I want you to come from that beautiful cock of yours as deep inside of me as you can, want to feel your balls slapping against me as they give me every fucking ounce they have.”

            The words, more delicious than the sweetest pie, twist Sam’s insides, make his cock ache. He pants, feeling close already, the suddenness and the naughtiness of doing this in the car on a highway flaring his lust.

            “You getting close, Sammy? We’ve gotta work on that stamina. How are you supposed to make me sore if you come too fast? You’ve got to use me for hours.”

            “Dean… tell me…”

            “Anything.” Sam believes it.

            “Tell me you like this too.”

            “Oh Sam, I fucking love this too. My dick’s so hard and I’m getting my jeans all wet thinking about you. I want to hear you come, gonna remember the sound and play it back when I come tonight. I’m gonna come thinking about this. Gonna call your name.” Sam moans, can’t resist it. He’s getting so close, balls tightening, legs clenching. “That’s it, Sammy, come for me. Gonna call your name while I come so hard. Yeah. That’s it. Such hot sounds. Yeah, Sam, just like that.”

            Sam’s orgasm is quick and mild, a kiss on the cheek before work, but his body still exhales and relaxes. His eyes are closed and he smiles. He’d been way too tense before.

            “You still on the right side of the road?” asks Dean.

            “I pulled off.”

            “See? You _are_ a genius.”

            Sam raises his hand from the sticky mess under the jacket. “A really gross genius,” he says. He uses the jacket to wipe himself off. He’ll throw it in the wash as soon as he gets to the new house.

            “I’d offer to lick it up for ya, but you’re a bit far away for that.”

            Sam starts to return the jacket to the seat, but Cujo is way too alert and he knows that if he sets it down, she’ll start sniffing at it. He decides to shove it under his seat instead. “Cujo was watching too. That was weirding me out.” Honestly, he’d only noticed it at first, but he doesn’t say this.

            “Ew. Dog voyeurism. At least she didn’t…”

            Sam interrupts. “Don’t… even…”

            “Ha! Okay then. Well, I should probably get back inside.” Sam thinks it’s strange how quickly Dean’s voice changes from phone sex hotline to nonchalant bro. For his part, Sam’s still a little out of breath.

            “Where are you?”

            “Impala. I was inside a police station when you texted.”

            “You are sitting outside a police station?”

            “Yep.”

            Sam is horrified on Dean’s behalf since it doesn’t seem to bother Dean in the least. “And you said all that right there?”

            “My windows are rolled up,” Dean says defensively. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Well, most of my windows.”

            “Goodbye freak.”

            “See ya.”

            The call ends and Sam looks over at Cujo. “Might as well walk you,” he says to her. She wiggles.

           

            The Texas Red Oak in their front yard is the perfect spot to play with bugs. Chalendra is sitting in its shade holding a stick that she occasionally turns into an ant bridge. The colony is confused, but responds quickly to the change in situation as all good soldiers do. It makes her miss her fellow angels, specifically her garrison, and she wonders again how they are, what they are doing, if they hate her for falling. She hadn’t given much thought to fallen angels before she became one, so they probably don’t think of her much at all.

            Gloomy thoughts of the past vanish when Sam pulls up to the curb. She drops the stick and jumps up to greet him. She reaches for him before he’s even all the way out of the car, wrapping her arms around him and holding on tightly. “Hey, Chal,” he says low in her ear. They haven’t made names for themselves yet, had prioritized it behind hunting with the Winchesters, and he’s clever enough not to call out her real name.

            “Seeing you makes me happy!” she says. Cujo whines from inside the car, nervous about the goings on or perhaps jealous that she’s not getting any attention. “And you, Jo.” She reaches in and snatches up the struggling waheela cub that snaps at her, is too young to properly tell friend from foe. A few scritches on a white fluffy belly and Chal is friend again. “I have a new leash and a collar for you,” Chal says to Cujo who looks at her uncomprehending but excited.

           

            “Well, this is it huh? I love the tree.”

            “It’s a Texas Red Oak, quercus buckleyi.” She looks at the tree longingly. “I wish I could ask it its tale.”

            She says things like that sometimes, usually about animals, and Sam wonders just how often angels need to be tree whisperers. He barely remembers her when she still had grace, but he doesn’t need to imagine her having conversations with plants because she still does, even if they are now one-sided.

            It takes four trips to bring everything in from the truck as he’d grabbed a few stray things from the shed that they might need before dismantling it and taking it to the junkyard where no one would connect the Ackleses with the metal scrap painted with devil’s trap and Enochian sigils. The house is big with single paned windows, almost farmhouse in appearance. To his consternation, he finds that his room is not actually a room, but a loft, one wall about belly button height. He climbs the short set of stairs that leads up to the room, sets down the last trip of stuff, his bags, and cries out, “Chal, this isn’t even a room!”

            She doesn’t call back, but comes to him holding a collar and a wild, angry monster dog with wet fur. He has to hand it to her; she wastes no time in performing unpleasant tasks. “What do you believe it to be?” she asks. Cujo snorts and struggles.

            “Privacy, Chal, it’s important!”

            “Oh,” she says, comprehension just peeking in. “You’re unhappy about the walls not reaching the ceiling!”

            “Yeah, Chal!”

            Cujo makes a desperate attempt at freedom and manages to wriggle out of Chal’s hands, racing off down the hallway, probably to pee on things. “Cujo!” yells Chal. Her hands are wet and coated in fur. “Our waheela is loose.”

            Sam rolls his eyes. He looks around the room. “What about my music? You complained about that in Michigan and I had walls in Michigan.”

            “I already set things up in the room I claimed as my own, but if you want to negotiate for it, I can sit down and do that.” She eyes the boxes stacked in his room and adds, “Though I don’t want to.”

            He just wants to sleep and seeing his own bed, not one of those stinky stiff unhygienic hotel mattresses, makes him all the more eager. “Never mind, Chal. It’s fine. I’ll just deal with it for another year.” He lands face first on the bed, momentum making him bounce a bit. The linens smell like home, that indescribable whatever that composes a scent he can only smell for a brief period of time when returning somewhere else; soon the scent will become invisible as it coats his body and he loses the ability to smell it.

            “Are you sure? I would rather negotiate it now before having you unpack your boxes.”

            “Chal!” he whines. “I just wanna sleep.” Maybe he’ll feel like fighting the issue when he wakes up, but he doesn’t think so. It’s actually kind of neat to have a loft; he can see down into the living room from up here. He’ll be like Sauron keeping an eye on the middle-earth that is the Ackles home.

            He thanks her when she turns off the light. Of course, the room is still illuminated from the living room below and it’s too bright. “Chal! Can you get the downstairs light too?” he yells. Within moments, it grows darker again in the room. Now the remaining house lights barely reach his room, like having a nightlight. He shuffles underneath the blanket, shimmies out of his jeans, and grips his pillow tightly. When he closes his eyes, the yellow line appears again, a lurking boogeyman. He growls at it. This apparently is waheela-speak for “come here” because within seconds, Cujo is next to him on the bed. Her nose tickles where it touches his ear and then his cheek. When he raises his hand to pet her, she ducks away, still not as domesticated as a normal puppy, but she also doesn’t go far. By the time he falls asleep, she has too, the little black pads of her paws pressed against his forehead.

 

            The next few weeks are boxes and sketchpads and dog treats and Dean’s voice swirling into a routine as comforting as Sam has ever known. The sun seeks him out, finding him when he sits beneath the Red Oak (which Chal has taken to calling Cardinal Richelieu) with his hands full of another Star Wars novel or when he’s walking Cujo in the park, making up some nonsense about rare Alaskan breeds when they gush, “Just like a little bear!” at his stranger-friendly waheela cub. His skin darkens. He covers the fuse box in his room with a Led Zeppelin poster and draws Nick dying, his body an eggshell cracking under the pressure of Lucifer’s essence. Sam propels a bullet through a Budweiser bottle with only his mind and Chal makes him peach pie. He gets the Hunter comic scanned at Kinko's and sends them to Dmonhunter@aol.com and Dean asks questions, offers enough praise to make Sam feel like Todd McFarlane. Then the praise turns into phone sex, promises that make his blood rush, his needs manifested as wicked words and his name on Dean’s lips.

            Sam is happy.

           

            Chal has become so accustomed to Sam’s more upbeat mood, that when he shuffles into the kitchen with hair askew and eyes downcast and hard, she asks if he’s feeling ill. When he snaps at her to leave him alone, she’s brought forcefully back to perpetually angry Sam, the Sam who had yet to meet Dean Winchester. She wants to shake him out of the relapse, to jostle him until his eyes light up with laughter.

            “Did something happen with Dean?” she asks.

            He turns on her, mouth animated by loathing. He holds the blue and white milk carton like a weapon. “Not everything is about Dean! Or John! God, you can’t think about anything but the Winchesters these days!”

            Whether the words sting or not, she is no punching bag for his temper’s focus. “Do not disrespect me,” she says, voice cooler than she feels, heart pounding with self-defensive startled anger.

            The sound of the milk carton slamming against the wall behind her back reaches her ears before her eyes can make sense of the movement of Sam’s hand. Milk splashes against her upper arm, though most gurgles out of the misshapen box, bleeding out onto the tile like a gunshot victim.

            Sam’s face is has never been cruel, even in moments of anger. The corners of his lips are too eager to curl upwards and his eyes too wide show too much the kind nature of his heart. But it is cruel now, the look he gives her before leaving kitchen, leaving Chal with her confusion and sadness.

           

            When Cujo bites her as she leashes the waheela cub, who is normally overjoyed to be going for a walk, Chal decides to put the pup into Bloodlust quarantine now rather than waiting until right before they leave for the movies. The new moon won’t rise for at least eight more hours, but Chal feels like having to handle one more act of aggression today will break the camel’s back, her nerves still raw from the unexpected confrontation with Sam.

 _You’re both disloyal_ , she thinks as she looks down at the growling waheela.

            The chamber she’s prepared for Cujo’s isolation is in an unfinished basement down the stairs from the laundry room. Sigils of sound protection line the walls of the room. She’s drawn a rather large one on the floor in the center of the enormous cage that will hold Cujo. She’s spelled the bars, infused them with a calming aura though if the puppy does go through her time of bloodlust this month, Chal imagines the spell will be close to useless. She’d constructed the cage, an ugly and near-indestructible creation, herself. It needs to be sturdy enough to withstand the waheela rage once Cujo is grown as well; she won’t stay the size of a bread loaf forever, has grown noticeably in only the two months that they’ve provided her a home.

            Cujo is none too happy about being carried to the basement. She’s suspicious and rumbling softly, complaining in beast terms about being held in her current bad mood. Her tension becomes action, when she sees the opportunity for escape, Chal’s one hand reaching for the unlocked cage door. Cujo drops to the basement floor and in a scramble of clicking nails and bristled fur takes off to the stairs.

            Chalendra hadn’t expected the escape attempt, but hesitates only as long as her mortal reflexes take. Then she is chasing after the waheela, body a racehorse trained for speed and power. She’s in luck that the puppy is less agile on stairs. She throws herself and reaching a hand, manages to grab one of Cujo’s back legs. The waheela turns, ready to bite her hand, but her other hand is there clasping the cub’s snout, shoving it closed with probably too much force. Chal releases the leg to get a better grip on Cujo’s torso. The whipping tail and head are no match for her human muscles. Soon, she’s carry carrying the beast back to the cage and tossing her in like a sack of rabid potatoes. Chal barely manages to shut the metal door before Cujo can press herself against it. The lock slides easily, trapping the grouchy creature in her home for the next two days.

            Chal sits Indian-style, back to the cage, and catches her breath. She speaks aloud a word she doesn’t recall ever using but that John uses often. “Fuck today,” she says and the curse tickles her tongue, makes her laugh. Her day gets worse.

 

            Sam cleans the milk, has to because Chal won’t stop making a big deal about it. He told her that if she cared so damned much she should just clean it herself. It had taken all his willpower not to just smack her across the face when she started in with her even tones about shared responsibility as though he was a newcomer to this household, to the way that she wanted everything to be. He’d yelled a bit, okay a lot, but it didn’t feel good, didn’t make her mad too like he wanted it to. He rings the white out of the rag and into the blue plastic bucket with the cheap yellow handle. He’s pretty much growling, like Cujo does. He can’t hear it if she’s growling or barking in the basement, not with all the sound-warding Chal had put down there. He bets that she is. He can’t blame her, being caged in down there and it’s not like it’s her fault; she can’t help what she is.

            He rises up, the knees of his jeans slightly damp from crouching too near the puddle. The floor is clean enough, he figures. Tossing the dirty water out into the front yard feels good. He wants to throw more things. He picks up a rock, turns it over in his hands, and then throws it for all he’s worth against the neighbor’s wooden fence. The sound of the ricochet is satisfying, like the feel of hurling it with his full power. Sam wonders how many windows he could bust in the neighbor’s house before the cops arrive. Then, he wonders how many cops he could take out before they finally dragged him off to jail. He’s a good fighter; Chal didn’t skimp on his martial training. He aches to put that to use right now, wants to throw a rock not into a fence but into someone’s face, wants to hear the sound of an eyeball exploding underneath stone.

            He’s still standing on the porch considering these morbid thoughts when Chal comes up behind him and rests a hand on his shoulder. It feels like he has a sunburn where she touches. He recoils from her, glares from behind his bangs.

            She notices the look, ignores it. Instead, she looks out over the yard. “I put Cujo in the cage.”

            “You want an award?” he asks.

            “I thought you might want to sit with her for a bit, let her know she’s not alone.”

            Great, he’s cleaning the house and watching a dog, a dog that’s caged, no less, and he wonders what other chores she’s going to make him do. “She is alone.”

            “Sam, what’s bothering you?” she asks.

            He hates the kindness in her voice, the concern that she used to show only for him, and now shows for John. The answer is obvious, at least to Sam. “You’re bothering me. Why do you have to be around all the time? Can’t you have a job like a normal mom?”

            Chal frowns, chapped mouth corners turning downward.  “I am _not_ your mother.”

            Sam loses control of his actions then, swings his fist and the white wooden finial at the top of the porch handrail flies off into the grass. Instant pain whites his vision and damned if it doesn’t make Sam feel better than he has all day. It feels triumphant, productive, like it’s what he’s supposed to do. So, he does it again, punching the knob off the other side of the porch railing. It takes two hits, one right and one left, before it too lands in the yellowing grass. His body surges like he’s growing, an Incredible Hulk metamorphosis. He wants to do more. Then Chal’s hands are on his shoulders and he whirls to her, focuses on how much stronger he is than her, all her training and exercising inefficient against his natural male power, the muscles flexing under the skin of his 6 foot 1 frame. She’s helpless to what he could do to her, how he could make her head join the ugly decorative knobs in the yard, one more trophy.

            Chal is yelling at him. He can’t understand her words. His fingers itch to destroy, but not her, no, she’s kin. As gratifying as it would be to see his hands around her throat, he knows that killing her won’t help. He needs to see someone else die, someone not part of his pack.

            The opportunity presents itself faster than he could have hoped. A nosy neighbor, drawn to the property, intent on interfering with Sam’s pleasing destruction, appears. The neighbor, late thirties, a weak pencil-pusher, takes long strides towards him. Sam can’t feel the dark smile that spreads across his own face, feels only elation at impending battle, impending victory. He growls and jumps off the porch, bypassing the three short stairs completely.  His opponent stops, worried by the jump, and his hands are up, lips moving, and sounds that Sam can’t or doesn’t want to recognize squeaking from a neck pinked with adrenaline.

            He lunges at the man, the weak neighbor, grabs his body and slams it to the ground. Sam’s never used his teeth in a fight before. There’s a first time for everything. The man’s throat tastes like shaving cream and fear. The sensation of biting that pulsing neck and the desperate push of struggling hands has to be better than sex. Sam’s fingers bite into the man’s chest, nails sinking into the skin through the man’s blue button-up shirt. Sam can smell the blood. It’s better than the smell of Chal’s oatmeal date cookies, makes his groin tighten with a rush of pleasure. The man is screaming.

            He tastes the blood of the man, coppery, gross, but Sam revels in it anyway, because he is the one that caused it. The disgusting blood is his prize for being more physically capable than this stupid man. He raises his head from the man’s throat and howls.

            Then, his head jolts and blackness overtakes his vision. The world with all its blood and violence and sex vanishes with his thoughts and his consciousness.

 

            Dean’s addition of Chal’s cell phone number had been a polite gesture, not actually a desire to make contact. She is dad’s obsession, not his, and while she seems cool enough, he thinks of her only as Sam’s mom. He’s started to note her name on his caller ID and considers not answering because he doesn’t want to have long conversations with her like his dad does, but there is the chance that Sam’s hurt or something, so he does answer but with every intention of jumping ship if she’s calling to chat.

            “’Lo?” he answers.

            “Dean. This is Chalendra.”

            “Hey, Chal. What’s up?”

            “Are you in close proximity to John, your father?”

            For a second, dean thinks that his dad must be nuts because Chal is just so weird. She’s used the word “proximity” which is weird but also done that thing where she makes sure to emphasize that John is his father; Dean is well aware who John is. “No Chal, not within proximity. He’s got a good 60 miles or so on me. Why, he not answering his phone?”

            “I didn’t attempt to reach him. I’m calling you.”

            **Crap** , thinks Dean. “Yeah well, I’m in the middle of a case right now, so I don’t really have much time to talk.”

            “Dean, it’s about Sam.” Dean’s stomach drops. His hypothetical Sam-being-hurt situation wasn’t actually supposed to be a possibility.

            “What about Sam?” asks Dean. He hopes that it’s nothing, but his head is yelling that something is wrong and his hearing is suddenly bionic with his concern. He waits what seems like a _Gone with the Wind_ amount of time for her to speak.

            “First, I have kept your secret from John and I ask you to extend the same courtesy with what I need to tell you now. John is not ready to hear this, but you might be.”

            It’s emotional blackmail, of course, because Dean absolutely needs to know what’s going with his new friend, but he won’t hold it against her because she’s right, he does still owe her a secret, and because there’s already a fuckton of shit that he’s keeping from his dad and one more isn’t going to make much of a difference. “Sure, Chal. I promise. Just tell me.”

            “In addition to Sam’s ability to destroy demons, he also has a touch of telepathy and telekinesis.”

            Maybe Dean had been a bit naïve telling Sam that he wasn’t something his dad would hunt because ganking demons is one thing and moving shit around and getting into people’s heads is another. Little Sam Ackles is a hell of a lot more dangerous than he thought, maybe less Spiderman and more Darth Vader.

            He weighs what he does know about Sam with Chal’s revelation and decides pretty quickly that he still trusts Sam, still likes him, and still wants to have him as an ally and friend. Dean doesn’t think Dad will come to the same conclusion, but then, he doesn’t know Sam as well as he does. Chal understands his silence, that he’s re-considering his relationship with her son, and she speaks up in Sam’s defense. “This changes nothing about who Sam is as a person nor how greatly he esteems you.”

            “Bullshit,” says Dean, but he isn’t certain it is. He may agree that he won’t let it change his dynamic with Sam, but he doesn’t care for how easily she is dismissing his powers. John and Dean have hunted less dangerous things than Sam. “You’re a hunter; you know how this type of shit gets into people’s heads, how it rots them from the inside out.”

            “He’s had these powers all his life and he’s still a good person.”

            “He is now…”

            “And he will continue to be.”

            Dean dislikes her certainty. He’d seen the way Sam changed when he’d vaped that demon in Missouri, seen the way Sam’s personality and emotions had shut off. That kind of power does something to the person using it and if it can be used against humans, not just demons, then that makes Sam dangerous. Dean’s not about to hunt Sam, but he’s not going to take for granted that his friend is always going to be as tender-hearted as he is nor that he’ll always be able to resist the allure of using that power on his fellow humans. “So, why the confession now?” he asks Chal.

            “Because the waheela is telepathic too.”

            “Cujo?”

            “Yes, and at sun-down yesterday, she went into the blood rage and took Sam with her.”

            Guilt wraps its tentacles around his confusion. Dean doesn’t know what happened, but he knows that the waheela is to blame and that damn thing is alive because of him. “She went into the blood rage around Sam? Is he okay? Did she hurt him?”

            “She sent off the blood lust through her telepathy into him. She was… contagious because of his telepathic susceptibility.”

            “Are you saying that he went into a blood rage?”

            “Sam was arrested last night for attacking our neighbor.” Chal’s voice cracks. She’s either about to cry or trying not to cry. “He… he bit the man’s throat after knocking him to the ground.”

            “Holy shit,” says Dean.

            “The police came and took them both to the hospital.”

            “Why didn’t they take Sam to jail?” asks Dean.

            “Because he had suffered head trauma from where I knocked him unconscious with a decorative wood piece from the porch stairs.”

            If the whole story wasn’t so horrific, Dean might have been tempted to find the image of Chal knocking Sam unconscious with a wood block amusing. Instead, he knows how bad it must have been for Chal to do that to her son, knows how desperate of a state she must have been in to resort to that. Dean wonders what he had been doing when this happened. At sundown he’d been about to order a pizza, just wandering around the hotel room in his boxes and he’d been completely oblivious to the crazy seeping into his friend’s mind.

            “The police are releasing him back into my custody. They confirmed that he had no drugs in his system at the time of the attack. They suggested that I get him into therapy. Overall, they seemed less concerned than I would have suspected. I told them that we were having a disagreement outside prior to the attack and they concluded that that was the reason for the assault. That my neighbor stepped into the fight and Sam, still angry, lashed out at him rather than me.” Her breath catches. “Now that I think about it, that’s probably what happened. He couldn’t kill me so he took the opportunity to redirect his rage to the stranger.”

            Dean doesn’t know what to say when Chal does start to cry. He hears the _fa-fa-fa_ of her lower lip shuddering. “Hey,” he starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. “He’s gonna be okay though right? I mean, you said they’re releasing him, right?”

            “Dean, your father asked if Sam could join you two hunting this summer. I declined. I would like to change my answer.”

            If Dean was a dog, his floppy ears would tweak upwards at this. “Dad invited Sam with us?”

            “Yes. I didn’t want to… well, I didn’t want to give him up. Now, I think the best thing in the world for him would to be with you two right now. He is going to emotionally torture himself for his actions, regardless of Cujo’s involvement. If he is mobile and busy and with you both, he will have less opportunity.”

            If Dean wasn’t driving, he might do the happy dance, the one that involves clicking his heels together ala _Singing in the Rain_. “I think it’s a great idea! Sam can ride in the Impala with me!”

            “You will keep an eye on him.”

            “Hell yeah, and if he tries any Jedi mind-trick shit on me, I’ll smack him upside his head like you did.” It is way too soon to make that joke and Dean gets that as soon as he shuts up. His mouth filters always suck when he’s happy. He’s much better at shutting his trap when he’s pissed or depressed. “Um, sorry.”

            “Sam is adept at controlling himself and his abilities. I would not give my permission if I felt that you or John would be in danger.”

            “Yeah, I get it. So, how’s this going to work?”

            “I will speak with Sam and make sure that he wants to go, but I am quite convinced that he will. Perhaps one of you could drive down to Texas and pick him up? His school starts September 6th. You will need to have him back before this date.”

            “Sure,” says Dean, probably too quickly. “I’m in Idaho right now, so it shouldn’t take me too long to get him.”

            “Finish your current hunt. I will talk with Sam and he can call you if we decide to proceed.”

            Dean’s about two seconds away from saying that he isn’t on a hunt when he remembers his lie at the beginning of the conversation and instead says, “Okay.”

            “I cannot sufficiently convey my gratitude,” she says, which makes Dean feel kinda guilty because he’s totally benefitting from the bad situation.

            “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of him.”

            “Goodbye, Dean. We will talk soon.”

            Dean pops Autograph into the tape deck and, taking their advice, turns up the radio.


	9. The Perfect Summer

           

           July 15th, the day that Dean picks up Sam, it’s 93° which wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t also intensely humid. It’s not so bad with the Impala’s window down, the warm air ruffling up the sleeve of his t-shirt and across the spikes of his hair, a reminder that he’s due for a cut, but when he gets out of the car the air feels thicker, like he could reach out and grab it. Also, his jeans are damp where his ass and crotch have been sweating. It’s not exactly the entrance that he wanted to be making into the Ackles’s new home. Sam’s waiting for him in the archway of the front door, posture faux-casual as he leans against its frame. He’s in a white wife-beater, a different look for the kid and not a bad one, and he’s got on cargo shorts. He smiles at Dean when their eyes meet. Disgusting sweat excluded, Dean’s damn happy to be in San Antonio.

            “Hey there, Kid!” he calls. “Where’s our dog?”

            Sam purses his lips and whistles. Within seconds, a fucking cotton ball is racing towards him. Cujo is about twice the size she’d been when they caught her, maybe even three times, but she’s still not menacing, bloodlust or no. Her tongue, a combination black and pink, rolls out of her mouth and she head butts Dean’s jeans with all the momentum of her run. “Ack!” he cries out as his leg threatens to buckle. “Trying to knock me over?” he asks the beast as it wiggles in excitement around him. He bends down and strokes her head, admonishments previously made to Sam for this exact act forgotten. Cujo is ridiculously cute. She looks a bit like a fluffy teddy bear, but with definite dog-like traits. If she didn’t have those creepy pink eyes, she could be a calendar dog. “You’re no match for me!” he says to her as he knocks her onto the grass. She likes it, gets back up and growls playfully.

            “Now who is playing with the waheela?” asks Sam, voice all mockery.

            Dean smiles at Sam. “Forgotten me already huh? I’ve got to try harder to stick in your memory.”  He has to hand it to Sam, because he doesn’t blush at Dean’s teasing, maybe he’s gotten too used to how Dean throws out innuendos every chance he gets.

            “You’re my mom’s boyfriend’s son,” Sam says. “Don or something?”

            Dean approaches Sam, waheela circling his feet like a force field of fur. When he’s only a foot or so away from the kid, who looks like he might have grown another damn inch in the month they’ve been apart, he says, “Something like that.”

            There’s a naughtiness gleaming in Sam’s hazel eyes. In a way, it’s not dissimilar from Cujo’s expression after he’d knocked her down, that desire to play. “Hey, Dean,” he says softly.

            “Hey, Danny Boy.” Dean raises his hand and gently pushes the bangs covering Sam’s left eye back over his ear. “Miss me?”

            Sam shivers, an involuntary gesture that Dean appreciates even if his poor heat-deflated cock can’t. “Not a bit,” jokes Sam. “Come on in. Chal’s just double-checking the shed for anything that I might need.” He turns and leads the way into the house. It’s blissfully air-conditioned and Dean closes the door behind him, wants to be able to do that to the whole overly hot world. He recognizes some of the furniture and art around the living room like the ugly green rug under the coffee table and the painting of the Hoover dam. Cujo darts past them and circles a small doggy cushion near the stairs that lead up to what Dean assumes to be Sam’s loft. She sits proudly, claiming the spot as her own, not like Dean could take it from her if he wanted to. He could barely fit his foot inside the cushion. “She’s got herself a bit worked up about my leaving,” says Sam. At first Dean thinks he means Cujo, but then he realizes that they’re still talking about Chal. Dean wonders how long she’ll be outside because he wants the full tour of Sam’s new room complete with a demonstration of the sound-carrying qualities that Sam has bitched about.

            “Well, you are her precious baby boy, after all!”

            “Shut up. Just because some of us have parents that _like_ us…” Sam jokes.

            There are three duffels on the stairs, each one taking its own step. “That all your taking?” he asks Sam. Dean hopes so because there’s way more important shit that need to fit in the Impala’s trunk than Sam’s tighty-whities.

            Sam shrugs. “And my laptop bag.”

            “Nerd,” offers Dean. Then, something catches his nose’s attention; he lifts it into the air. “Do I smell cinnamon?”

            Sam laughs. “You look like Cujo when you do that!” He leads Dean to the kitchen, each step smelling more delicious, and points to a tray sitting atop the counter.

             “Oh man, cinnamon rolls!” They’re very obviously homemade, no popping cans here, but they look wonderfully sticky. His mouth waters as he hovers over them waiting for Sam to give him the green light on being able to grab one and make it part of his intestinal tract. “You make these, Sammy?” Dean asks, sneaking a peek over his shoulder at Sam.

            Sam shrugs. “I make lots of food, especially breads.”          

            “I still dream about your garlic bread,” admits Dean. He pinches at one of the doughy cinnamon rounds with his thumb and forefinger. It squishes beneath his fingers, enticing with its soft edibility. He can tell it’s delicious before he even bites into it and once he does, he moans. “Oh man, Sam, this is a-mazing!” he says with his mouth full. He smiles at Sam, the icing oozing over his lips as he does.

            Sam laughs. “Dude, chew with your mouth closed!” Instead of obeying, Dean draws in close and chews with mouth gaping open deliberately swilling the food around as disgustingly as he can. Sam tilts away and he follows, chasing him around the kitchen island with his saliva and the half chewed cinnamon roll. “Ah! Dean! Get away! Oh dude, that is so wrong!”

            Finally, Dean closes his mouth and finishes the bite. It really is the perfect cinnamon roll. He looks around the sunshine-filled kitchen. It’s like a television commercial, every cooking utensil in its place and lace curtains on the window above the sink, even has one of those rotating ladle holders. “You’re going to make someone the perfect wife someday.”

            Chal chooses that moment to make her entrance, which is awesome because it makes his insult that much funnier, Sam standing there looking embarrassed and irked but unable to say whatever retort his brain was concocting. Chal’s in black bike shorts and a tube top and he doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but for a second he ogles Sam’s mom. She’s got kind of a butter face, but there isn’t a damn thing wrong with the curves keeping up that tube top. In her right hand is a shovel, dirt clotted inevitably in the curves of the metal, and hanging from her left hand is a necklace. Dried mud covers her knees and she has a smudge on her chin the shape of muddy fingers. “Hey, Chal.”

            “Dean!” she cries, as though surprised, like she could possibly have missed the sound of Baby in her driveway. She reaches out to hug him and he steps back, not really feeling like getting clocked by the shovel, but it doesn’t matter what he does because she’s determined and fast and soon he’s pressed tightly against her soiled tube top.

            “Sam will be of such use to you!”

            “Uh, Chal, shouldn’t you be telling me to keep _him_ safe?”

            She looks confused. The shovel brushes against his jeans, swaying with every slight movement she makes. “He is quite adept at survival. He is also more powerful than you and John.” Even with the robotic recitation of what Chal deems facts, though Dean definitely disagrees with her assessment, his father’s name on her lips sounds musical, that one syllable all but floating on cartoon hearts.

            “Dean thinks that you should be worried about me. You know, since I’ve never been on this long of a hunt and never with anyone else but you.”

            Dean doesn’t understand why it needs explaining, wonders not for the first time if maybe something isn’t quite right with Chal mentally. Whatever it is, Sam hasn’t inherited it that he can tell.

            “Oh!” Chal says, brain cogs clicking into place. “I _am_ worried! Though I believe my concerns to be futile, since worry won’t protect him, and unfounded, since he is so capable!”

            Dean nods, resists opening his mouth since he fears that an uncomplimentary opinion might leak out.

            “Will you be leaving right away?” she asks Sam.

            Sam’s eyes look to his and Dean shrugs, comfortable with whatever the teen wants to do. He wants to be as flexible as possible, do whatever he can to minimalize Sam’s anxiety. Dean’s heard of homesickness, knows about it in theory if not from experience, knows how awful it feels. He dreads when it will hit Sam, hopes that it won’t be so acute that he has to run the boy back home to mommy, because that could involve one hell of a drive back.

            “I’m ready now,” says Sam.

            “After I eat a couple more cinnamon rolls.” Dean pops a second gooey treat into his mouth and smiles at Sam who he can tell is pleased underneath the disgusted face.

 

            “So, it looks like you survived another day without being eaten by the yellow line,” says Dean.

            They’re pulling duffels from the trunk of the Impala. It’s evening and only their third stop this trip, the first to not involve food. Sam can’t help but be elated by how run down and shitty the motel that Dean has chosen looks. The chain-link fence that runs around all but the entrance to the office, the chipped corner of the sign (The Stay In), the color-TV proclamation, and the moon crater-like potholes in the asphalt mean adventure to Sam, mean experiences he hasn’t had and places from which he’s been sheltered.

            The duffel is heavy, grooves of the rippled texture on the straps already marking his hand as they approach the office, shoulders pleasantly bumping together. “I didn’t have to do any driving. I got to look at the scenery.” Sam sticks out his tongue. “While you played chauffeur.”

            “Better than having you crash my baby with your amateur driving skills.”

            The front office is another tableau of adventure. Security monitors and laminated signs that read “Suspicious activity will be reported” and “proper identification required” are taped and re-taped to the edge of the front desk. The guy behind the warning-decorated desk looks to be about Dean’s age and he sits up with slight interest at his new customers.

            “Hey,” the guy says.

            “Hey. Double for one night,” says Dean smoothly, hand already reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.

            Sam watches the transaction, his brain documenting every detail, but he’s also still looking around the office, noting things like the portable fan with masking tape holding down the on button and the little table that holds coffee fixins, some opened packets of sweet-n-low spilled out onto the stained white tablecloth.

            Dean leads the way to their room, number 4. It’s not a long walk, but it feels like heaven to Sam’s cramped legs that not even school had been able to condition for sitting in a car for such extended periods.

            Sam gets two steps into the room, doesn’t even get to take it in before Dean’s pressing him against the door, using Sam’s back to shut it. Dean’s mouth is on his neck and his hands are on the button of Sam’s shorts. Sam makes a conversational, “urk,” and that’s apparently as long as it takes Dean to undo the cargo shorts, because they’re falling to his ankles, preceding his boxers by nanoseconds. It’s impressive, especially when Dean’s still working his mouth, licks and nibbles and kisses, on Sam’s neck. Then the mouth forms words, lusty low-voiced growly words, “Wanna make you come, Sammy. Tell me I can?” As aggressive as Dean’s actions are, Sam knows that he would stop, will stop that warm mouth and the nimble fingers if he doesn’t give permission because that’s how Dean is. Sam was shocked by getting slammed against the door and getting stripped down, but that doesn’t make him any less eager for this, makes him more eager, if that’s possible. He’s been dreaming about this for a month now, a month of having Dean whispering what he likes, pretty much offering Sam a blueprint of how to turn him on, the right things to say and do.

            It takes courage, but Sam speaks the words that he knows Dean wants to hear. For Dean, he can be brave. “Make me come, Dean. Want you…want you to choke on my cock…”

            And fuck if Dean’s whimper isn’t totally worth the embarrassment of saying such a thing aloud; the sound races into Sam’s ear and along his bloodstream.

            Then Dean is dropping onto his knees and Sam can’t brace himself properly for the sensation of Dean’s lips on his dick. It doesn’t matter that he’s felt it before, that sweet, sweet fuckable mouth moving up and down with firm pressure and no hint of teeth; it’s been a torturously long month, the absence of this particular sensation made more obvious by the wicked words that have traveled between them along phone lines, increasing the desire, making it more acute.

            Because he’s thinking it and because he knows that Dean will like hearing it, he voices the thoughts, more delirious ramblings that waft and curl like warm breath in cold damp air and he doesn’t phrase them; they phrase themselves, entities in their own right compelled by his desire to take form. “Missed your mouth. You’re so fucking good at this. Been thinking about this. Too many weeks. God, God, God. Your mouth, Dean. It’s so good. Been thinking about your mouth. Oh, yeah, take me all the way. You want to choke on it, right?” And choke he does, the sound almost as nice as the sensation. Dean’s mouth is a tight tempting heaven and with each slight change of pressure or movement, Sam can feel Dean’s tongue and cheek and lip.

            He lets his hand roam through the short bristles of Dean’s hair, just petting, not trying to yank down on Dean’s head. There’s no point anyway, because Dean’s taking him down to the root. His shoulders bump the door as his hips sway back and forth with Dean’s mouth. “Jesus, Dean,” he gasps.

            Sam thinks the sensation can’t get any better; Dean proves him wrong. Dean’s left hand climbs up his thigh, roams to the place behind his balls, cups them while one finger strays further back, tickling the sensitive skin just in front of his asshole. He moans, feels his dick pulse. Now his hands _are_ gripping Dean’s head and Sam’s fucking glad he has something solid behind him, because the world is starting to lose focus.

            Dean alternates between just sucking the head and under-ridge and taking the whole thing down. When he focuses on the head, little suction noises arise from the change of pressure. When he goes all the way down, Dean moans or chokes. Sam’s lost in a haze of wonderful sensation and sound. He has no need to want for anything, not when Dean is here, serving him. Inhibitions nearly gone, he says this to Dean. It’s uncertain how he manages it with Sam’s cock that far down his throat, but Dean full-on whimpers, efforts doubling because now his hand is gripping the base of Sam’s cock, jacking anytime his mouth leaves skin bare.

            “Dean!” cries Sam, orgasm suddenly looming before him. All he can do is breathe, can’t even make a single sound, as the come floods out of him. It’s only once it’s almost finished that the whine comes out of him, a gasping spitty ordeal.

 

            “I call dibs on the shower,” says Dean, his hand wiping at the corners of his mouth, saliva, and ejaculate glistening where he rubs.

            Sam just stares, his legs too shaky to move and his head ringing too loudly to allow thought, as Dean stands back up and, grabbing his duffel, disappears into the bathroom. All Sam can hear are clunks, the thuds of Dean preparing to bathe and his own heart reluctantly slowing, samba to waltz. His shorts are still around his ankles when the shower water starts.

            Sam is quite certain at that moment that this is going to be the best summer of his life.

 

            John calls with a case for them as they’re eating donuts at either end of Sam’s bed the next morning. Dean talks particulars in between jellied bites. Sam can count the number of times he’s even had a donut on his fingers so he relishes the too greasy, too sweat treat as new and as part of the on-the-road gig. Watching the way Dean’s tongue darts into the berry-filled hole creates a warmth in his belly, memories of last night dancing in his head. Sam’s only regret about the previous night is that once again he missed an opportunity to kiss the older boy. It’s weird that he’s come twice by lips he hasn’t kissed. He hopes to rectify that situation as soon as possible. So far it’s been Dean making all the moves, guiding what they do and when they do it, but Sam suspects, based on his love of being commanded, that Dean might appreciate him taking the reins entirely. If, that is, he can work up the balls to do so.

            “Yup, we’re on it,” says Dean. “Of course. Yes sir. We’ll call you as soon as we finish talking to the curator.”

            When Dean hangs up with John, Sam asks, “We have a case in an art gallery?”

            “Close.” Dean wipes the donut glaze off his lips with the back of his hand and once again Sam’s lost in memoryland – and he’d just gotten grounded in the present! “We’re going to The New Mexico Museum of Natural History and Science.”

            Sam likes the cases with ancient artifacts, even if they are so often bespelled to harm others, and museum trips are awesome, hunting or no.

            “Pack your duffel, we’ve got a security guard that saw another security guard get his brain bitten into by mummy.”

            Dean gets up, dusting crumbs off his lap, and starts tossing stuff into his own bag, completely nonchalant about the bizarre thing he just said.

            “Like a Boris Karloff mummy?”

            Dean purses his lips. “That’s what the man said.”

            “We’re gonna kick ancient Egyptian ass!” says Sam. This is so much better than another pissed off ghost.

            Dean grins proudly at him. “That’s the spirit, Sammy! Let’s cap King Tut!”

 

            The security guard had been right; it was indeed a mummy, an undead Ancient Egyptian wrapped in yellowing bandages and groaning like a dude with a hernia. The substantiation of his claim undoubtedly came as little consolation to the man who, immediately upon confirmation of his earlier sighting, had his skull cracked open and brain sucked out. Dean will never understand how so many dead guys, despite not having functional digestive systems, still have crazy appetites. They always seem ready to binge on human flesh like a recently-dumped girlfriend with a gallon of Haagen-Daaz.

            He and Sam had conducted their interviews as state cops, more jurisdiction than the local fuzz but less suspicious than a sixteen-year-old FBI agent, examined the scratch marks on the inside of the sarcophagus door belonging to a rather sated-looking, at least Dean thought so, mummy, and then killed a couple of hours eating and napping, in separate beds, in the hotel room before returning to the museum armed with both standard and mystical weaponry. Though it was Dean’s first mummy, his suspicions about how to waste the old zombie proved to be impressively accurate. Mummies light up like they’re coated in gasoline. They’d had to clear out from the barbecue fast, museum smoke detectors remarkably more efficient than motel ones. They’d scooped up the ashes, more mud, really, once the sprinklers had kicked in, and packed them in a Ziploc bag for carrying convenience – no telling if the bastards could regenerate from incineration. They’d left the very loud and watery building with their baggy of Tut and smiles of victory. It seemed to Dean that he ended more hunts wet than bloody. This time it was both, Tut having gotten the drop on him while watching Sam identify the guard/snack. The undead jerk needed a manicure but it didn’t feel too serious, the scratches on his back. His tetanus shot was up to date, so with a little soap and water, Dean figured he’d be good as new.

            “Why are we always Happy Meals to these jerks?” Dean asks, sliding the key card into the hotel door. He waits for the green light before continuing his rant. “I mean A) these guys don’t have working stomachs and B) we can’t be the most healthy things to eat. Would it kill these guys to try a frickin’ salad instead?”

            The room smells like cigarettes and it’s pitch dark inside, heavy drapes drawn tight against the outdoor lighting, flood lights way past their prime buzzing as they generate their unnatural yellow glow. It’s a comfort, the 250 square feet of borrowed territory, because, for tonight at least, it’s his sanctuary, his smelly home away from home.

            Sam follows in behind him with buoyant steps despite the weight of the duffels, caches of guns and knives, jeans and shaving cream, hanging on his shoulders. “If they ate salads, then you wouldn’t have a reason to test their flammability.”

            Dean doesn’t bother correcting him; he’d still grab his lighter if he saw a mummy pulling a Bugs Bunny impression, carrot hanging from its gnarly mouth. “I get dibs on the bathroom. Gotta wash mummy germs off my shoulder.”

            “I can help,” offers Sam.

            It’s not in Dean’s nature to accept help and it’s not like his dad offers assistance often enough for him to change that. Still, as he tells Sam, “It is in kind of a hard to reach spot.” He consoles the part of him that complains about displaying weakness with the rationalization that if Sam is shit at first aid, then that’s something he’d rather know now than later when it counts.

            Once in the one-butt bathroom, he pulls off his shirt, plain black, no need for cop uniform after they’d dismantled the museum’s security cameras in a couple of key spots. He turns back to the mirror and tries to get a good look at what they’re dealing with. Four parallel lines crusted with blood. They don’t look deep.

            Sam says, “They’re not bad” as he steps into the bathroom.

            “I know that,” snaps Dean. He doesn’t need consoling. “I’m not some ten-year- old with a scraped knee.”

            “You sure sound like one,” retorts Sam, but the eyes that meet Dean’s in the mirror hold only mirth.

            “Pff. Whatever, Nurse Ackles, just stop ogling the goods and get me fixed up.”

            Dean kicks off his boots and socks before sitting on the lip of the tub, feet on the cold ceramic of the tub. From here, he’s low enough to give access to the wound and Sam cleans it as he plays with the little rectangle of packaged soap. The smell of disinfectant is almost as well-known and comforting as the smell of motel. Sam’s hands work quickly and professionally. It stings at first, when Sam digs into the wounds with the iodine, but by the time that Sam pats down the adhesive tape along the edges of the bandage, it feels tons better.

            “Shrug,” Sam commands. Dean obeys. The bandage must hold firm because Sam steps back and says, “Done. You can now stop calling me Nurse Ackles.”

            Dean can’t keep from feeling at the bandage. He stands up and turns around and he’s pretty much chest to chest with Sam. He sees a twinkle in Sam’s eyes that indicates that their proximity hasn’t escaped the kid’s notice. “You getting Florence Nightingale on me?” he asks softly, no need to speak at normal volume when his mouth is probably eight inches from Sam’s ear.

            Sam scowls. “Always the girls’ names with you.” He reaches past Dean to grab something from the first aid kit open on the toilet lid.

            “Well, I can’t help it if you make it so easy, always giving me those googly eyes.”

            Sam’s hands now hold a roll of gauze, long fingers fiddling with the white near-transparent fabric. Dean watches him, certain that there’s something he’s missing, because Sam’s eyes aren’t looking at him and his demeanor has shifted, but he has yet to put his finger on which direction the shift occurred.

            “How should I look at you, Dean?” he asks, voice low, teasing, sexual where the words aren’t. He runs the loose end of the gauze roll across Dean’s hand, no, across his wrist, lets it drag a few times before catching it with his thumb, extending the fabric and wrapping it around.

            Dean’s breath catches when the implication of the action hits him. It’s actually embarrassing how just that small motion, just the hint of restraint, makes his lower lip quiver.

            Sam finally does look at him and the twinkle is a full flame. “How would you like me to treat you?” he asks, but it’s a question for permission not information. “Would you like to be tied up, Dean?”

             Dean doesn’t speak, doesn’t think he can. He sucks his lips and nods. He wants to be tied up more than Sam would imagine. It hasn’t been that long since the last time he was bound, but the last time he’d been imagining it was Sammy doing the binding and now Sam’s offering it to him for real.

            “Rope?” asks Sam.

            Dean nods again.

            Sam releases the loose gauze, throws it into the box. He touches two fingers to Dean’s neck, moves them higher to his chin. “Ankles too?”

            Dean shakes his head. The fingers move over his mouth. He sees a flash of uncertainty in Sam’s eyes before he speaks, but once he does, the words are out with as much confidence as Daniel, rookie state cop, had carried himself. It’s more exciting to know that Sam’s comfort zone is being pressed, acting the dom so that he can keeping getting orgasms from Dean. It’s unnecessary; Dean would drop down to his knees for Sam anytime he asked, but being told to go there is so much better, so much hotter, so he might just hold on to that tidbit for now. Besides, with Sam in this mood, he doesn’t seem very inclined to vocalization. “Is that so that you can spread for me?”

            Dean nods.

            “You gonna be my toy, Dean?”

            He finds his voice, because the words are habit. “Yes, Master.”

            Sam’s tongue darts out, licks his own lips, as though what Dean had said was yummy. “Then get in bed while I get the rope.” Dean moves to obey, but there’s a hand on his arm, and Sam is whispering in his ear, lips brushing the lobe. “No clothes.”

            It’s surprising how good he is at sounding authoritative when he needs to. Sure, he’d heard Sam’s demon-ganking voice, but that wasn’t this one. This one is pretend. Someday, Dean vows, he will receive commands from the other, the one with cold evil at the edges, but for now, his skin is aching for the burn of the rope and the possession of his body.

            He chooses Sam’s bed; let him stew in whatever juices end up sliming the sheets by the time they’re through. He lays down, nude down to the fur on his toe knuckles, and waits with anticipation. He watches Sam rifle through his duffel, movements methodical. He pulls out a few other trinkets that make Dean’s eyebrows raise; with the bottle of ID lube, nipple clamps, Lifestyle condoms, adjustable-size cock rings, crazy butt plug that even Dean would be too timid to try while sober, ball gag, and paddle, Dean is starting to think that Sam might have been planning this. He holds off on teasing the kid about it, because he doesn’t want to kill the vibe, but afterwards, all bets are off. For now, it’s kind of cool seeing how much thought Sam’s obviously put into whatever it is he’s about to do.

            When Sam looks at him, Dean can see the smile he’s fighting off as clearly as if he just let it spread across his face; he has a terrible poker face. Dean knows he looks good naked, but it’s probably a bit more than that. Dean’s favorite moment is when someone realizes that he’s all theirs to do with as they want. He thinks this moment might be now, spread out on the motel sheets, arms-outstretched like Christ and absolutely ready to bow to Sam’s will.

            Rope in hand, Sam approaches the bed. “If my toy wants to stop, he says, “Android.” Then I stop and check-in, make sure my toy isn’t broken, and see if he wants the play to end.”

            Dean can’t help the eyebrow that rises sassily on his forehead. He also can’t help the taunt that comes out, falling from his lips before he can suck it back. “Someone’s done their research.” He wants to retract it. He wants Sam to feel proud of himself, vain even, the better to order him around, the better to use him. He’s broken the fourth wall of sex play and he could punch himself. He lowers his eyes, lets the guilt rise as much as it wants to his face, wants Sam to know that he’s penitent, that the teasing had been accidental, instinctive.

            Dean has never needed a safe word in all the times that he’s played slave to women and men with experience and without names, partners that have left bruises and welts, sometimes even scars, but never touched deep enough. He won’t use it with Sam, in part because he knows that Sam won’t hurt him badly, but mostly because he wouldn’t mind if he did. It’s good that Sam has learned how to play the game, might even use it in the future after he’s used Dean up and moved on.

            “Close your eyes,” Sam commands. Dean obeys, gratitude for Sam’s disregard of his verbal slip filling him. “I’m going to bind your wrists together, Dean.”

            When Dean crosses his arms above his head, making things as easy as possible, Sam chuckles. The intimation of his own eagerness doesn’t bother Dean one bit; he’s never minded being a slut and he’s just happy to be given the chance to be Sam’s slut. Before the rope, he feels Sam’s fingers. They’re so long; Dean wonders for the hundredth time just how large Sam is going to grow. Thumb over the veins of his wrist, a gentle stroke, and then Sam’s teeth, nibbling at the sensitive skin there, before the touch of the rope. It’s too smooth. Dean wants rough hemp rope, something that will burn when he twists. He frowns.

            “The toy is displeased,” observes Sam. He hasn’t even knotted anything yet, just wrapped the rope around twice, as though seeing if it fit.

            Dean shakes his head vigorously. He has preferences, but he’s not displeased, wants Sam to keep going.

            He can hear Sam move away; he’s a good slave, or toy as Sam seems to prefer, and so he keeps his eyes shut tight, though he’s desperate to know how badly he’s fucked up by having shown unhappiness with the material choice.

            “Because he’d prefer this?” Sam’s voice, low, teasing, asks before he wraps Dean’s wrist with something else.

            Dean moans, because he can already tell that it’s hemp, rough, and scratchy and because Sam had known, without him having to say a word, what he wants. Even the best masters aren’t psychic; this is just Sam knowing him, which is so incredibly hot and new.

            The rope tightens and he can feel Sam’s fingers creating a knot. He wants to start pulling on it, but it’s too soon, his struggle would hinder the process. Instead, he tries to guess the type of knot by feel, guesses it’s a simple half-hitch or similar variant.

            His skin itches, but not from the rope. It’s impossible not to be excited when bound. It’s one of his favorite places to be. Nowhere to be, nothing to do but please. All he has to do is allow someone to do whatever they want, and they love him for it. It’s the easiest acceptance Dean’s ever found.

            Sam pulls on the rope, raises Dean’s hands higher and the movement stops short. Sam’s tying the rope to something, without his sight, Dean can’t tell what, but it’s secure enough that when he tugs, he feels no give. Dean smiles. **Clever kid** , he thinks, and then Sam’s wrapping his ankles. At first it startles him, thinking that maybe he’s ignoring Dean’s request, that he isn’t actually going to fuck him, but then, the ties aren’t uniting his legs. Sam drags rope under his Achilles tendon and over his ankle several times before setting into work on a knot. Dean squirms, arms pulling uselessly against the rope. Again he isn’t sure what Sam’s using as counterbalance, but slowly, each of his ankles gets pulled outwards towards the edges of the bed and locks there.

            Sam is making him feel special, like he’s worth restraining. That feeling intensifies when he feels Sam’s eyes on him. At least, he knows that Sam isn’t moving anymore and there are prickles, hairs tickling upwards, that make him feel watched.

            The room is quiet for a full minute, no movement, no conversation, just Dean and Sam and rope and trust. Dean basks in it.

            Then a hand presses on his stomach, across his navel, and the bed next to him lowers with Sam’s weight. “You know,” says Sam in the softest of voices. “I haven’t touched you before, Dean.” A finger lazily swirls down from his belly button through the patch of hair above his penis. “It’s only been you touching me. Now, all of you right here… well, I can touch anything I want, can’t I? It’s not like you’re in a position to stop me.”

            Dean breathes in shallowly, quickly. The finger feels good, the words feel better. He bites his own lip, worrying at one corner.

            “I gave you a safe word, my Toy, but you don’t know if I’m going to listen to it.” Sam probably doesn’t realize the taboo his words are crossing, breaking the sacred trust of top and bottom, but he sure as hell realizes that Dean likes it what with the way that Dean can’t keep his body still, every pull of rope on wrist and ankle sparking pleasure and want in him.

            The playful finger runs across his thigh, skates across the sensitive skin of his balls. It tickles like hell but Dean doesn’t laugh, though his abs and teeth clench in unison to prevent it.  It travels back up across his limp penis, squeezes at it a bit. This part of sex never changes for Dean and with Sam, he imagines that the explanation will need to be lengthier, because he’s gonna latch onto it, a waheela with a bone, like he does. Instead of the question Dean’s expecting, he feels Sam’s mouth and that is much more pleasant, though it catches him by surprise and his lips make a popping noise.

            No doubt the head that Sam gives would be better if he were hard, if Sam could bob like he’s trying to do, like the porn stars do, but as it is, it feels wonderful but sloppy, amateur, or maybe Dean’s just thinking that because he knows it’s the teen’s first time. He loves that Sam is giving him this first, like he’s let him have so many other firsts, but Dean also wishes that he was giving him something more exciting, something more to expectation.

            A hand follows the mouth, jerks him in between sucks and licks. Dean moans, sensation igniting his nerve endings. He pulls on the ankle bindings; they distribute the weight well, and Dean’s glad that even though he’s fucking a virgin, he’s also fucking a hunter.

            Sam eventually stops, which is good, because Dean wants to be fucked, but then he does get the question. “Dean?” Sam asks in a tentative voice.

            Dean’s grateful that he’s been ordered to shut his eyes, because he doesn’t want to see the look of confused disappointment on Sam’s face. He would break himself apart before letting Sammy down and he won’t, because sex is something he’s good at, making people feel good. He just has to redirect Sam’s attention. “Thought you wanted to fuck me, Master,” he pleads, arches his hips upwards.

            There’s hesitation in Sam’s voice. “Do you… want me to?”

            _Dammit_ , he thinks. This is not how it’s supposed to go. He frowns. He wants the dominant voice back, the reason why he’s still got his eyes shut, the reason why his hands are in the air even though his shoulders are starting to fuzz with lack of blood. “Want to please you,” he says.

            “But you…”

            “Sam,” says Dean, breaking character, has no choice because if they have _the_ conversation now, the one about his fickle cock, he’s never gonna get fucked, never going to own some small part of Sam, never going to feel loved, even if it’s just lust in disguise. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to control me. Please.” The word please only seems to leave his lips in situations like this or in sarcastic valley girl drawl when some stranger is being an idiot. “Use me.”

            It may be the permission, or the words, or another act for the benefit of his partner, but Sam moves into action. His hands are grabbing at Dean’s thighs, fingers biting deliciously into the flesh and Sam’s mouth is on his, licking his lips, opening his mouth with the force of his kiss. Then Sam’s mouth moves over his neck, and his nipples, and his hands are lower, moving underneath him, cupping his ass, raising it.

            Dean exalts in the passion, thrives on it, could fucking drink it down like it was water. He feels warm and wanted, hot and desperate. Sam’s everywhere, biting and scratching, and now his cock is twitching interestedly, and for a strange short moment, he wishes his hands were free so that he could grasp at Sam too, feel the strong thin body under his fingers, but the impulse passes as quickly as it comes, and just wants Sam inside him. He moans and pleads, “Please….Please master.”

            But Sam removes his body, heat following, and Dean is hoping to god that Sam’s just getting lube, because he’s gonna scream if Sam’s fetish is to leave him tied up and wanting, lusting after a filling cock that he can’t see because Sam still hasn’t told him he can look. He’ll learn what Sam likes, but he goes ahead and whimpers a bit, lets his master see how great his need is.

            The last thing that Dean expects is what he gets, and he does look, because Sam’s fingers are on the knots. He’s yanking them undone, freeing his wrists. Sam is naked and beautiful, face determined and cheeks red. The loss of the ropes is a small cost for the view of seeing Sam this way, plus, as soon as Dean’s arms fall back to the bed, he realizes just how numb they were getting.

            “I did _not_ …” snarls Sam, grabbing Dean’s jaw with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing into it, “Say you could open your eyes.”

            It is possible for a human to liquefy, Dean’s seen it, but when he does it, it has nothing to do with a Vore nor any other supernatural creature, just Sam’s luscious angry words and the pain radiating up his jaw. He whines, the image of Sam’s intense eyes burning behind his now closed eyelids. The pressure of Sam’s fingers lighten and then there are lips again, pressing into his. They don’t linger, Sam doesn’t either. He’s away again, leaving Dean to puddle on the bed, waiting with racing heart and closed eyes.

            Next it’s his ankle restraints and Sam rips them off hurriedly, runs his large hands over the tender exposed skin, and then places licks there, until Dean huffs, his best restrained giggle, because man, that tickles.

            “Get on your knees.”

            **Yes**! Dean’s mind cries. He scurries to obey, head lowered and ass up. His wrists feel a bit shaky, but he puts most of his weight on his knees and thighs. He knows the blood will return soon enough, that his arms will pulse and burn, red hot where they now feel like ice.

            “I’m going to fuck you, Toy, but first, I’m going to get you slicked up for me.”

            If they weren’t already in the moment, he’d request less lube, but as is, he’s obedient, plus, he’ll get the pain setting into his arms and wrists soon, plenty of fuel for his libido. “Yes, Master,” he whispers.

            The lube is fucking cold, but Sam’s fingers aren’t and they slip inside of him, two right off the bat. Dean groans, pleasant pressure making his ass clench, encouraging his hands to grab into the mattress. Then it’s three and Sam is pushing them in and out, and his hips are rocking back into the fingers, yeses falling from his lips every time they’re all the way up inside him.

            “Fuck,” says Sam and his voice is a breathy rasp, an absolutely overwhelmed and overwhelming sound.

            Dean’s knees shake under him. “Please, please, Master, please.” The fingers aren’t a cock, aren’t good enough. His hips don’t seem to know that, bucking as they do backwards, lurching as though Dean’s fucking and not just getting fingered. Sam pulls his fingers out, shuffles around, grabbing more of that cursed lube.

            When Dean feels the head of Sam’s cock for the very first time against his ass, he could cry because of how badly he’s wanted this for so long. He’s making a noise, a whine and a squeal and he just _wants_ so badly. Sam’s hands are on his ass which he’s offering up, lowering his shoulders and spreading his legs to best offer himself up, body language screaming that he’s all Sam’s. Then Sam is in him, one swift glorious glide in and fuck if he hadn’t been right about that amazing cock head. “Fuck!” Dean yells, every internal nerve ending lighting up like a Christmas tree.

            Sam is also cursing, streams of “fuck” and “oh God,” even some unintelligible words. Sam’s cock slides back only a little before driving into him again and then the strokes lengthen, a sweet rhythm that he keeps by pulling on Dean’s hip bones, urging him to ride as much as he’s being

            Each time Sam bottoms out, Dean’s vision sparks pinkish white, the color of the back of his eyelids in sunlight. It feels as warm as sunlight, the stretch of his ass, sure, but also the emotions pouring over him. Dean’s never liked anyone that’s fucked him, not like he likes Sam. This joining, this intense, scream out from his bones pairing, is breaking him from the inside out. That it feels just plain good is an awesome bonus, his ass clenching around the invading cock sending lightning zaps across his skin, through his cock, through his brain.

            They’re both panting, both swearing. The box springs crunch beneath them, creating a song, each thrust a note. When Dean’s wrists give out, he just switches to his elbows, and Sam’s hands move down along his back, pushing into it, fighting for leverage as his cock pistons out of Dean at an angle the greatest mathematicians would be impressed by.

            “Fuck Dean, gonna… gonna…”

            “Fill me up, Sammy. Give it to me. Fuck me, Sammy,” he encourages. Then, the litany of, “Use me, use me, use me,” that always makes them come, always makes cocks boil over, streams out of his mouth. He isn’t even sure if he means them this time, because this is something different and the go-to lines don’t fit quite right. Sam is still puffing away, a steam engine of lust behind him, and Dean is feeling closer to coming than he ever has with another human present, cock feeling full as it bounces between his legs, shifting with each slamming of Sammy’s hips. And he says, unintentionally, without any scheming to get the cock to release, “Need you, Sammy,” and he feels Sam throb inside him, hears the choked sound of Sam’s orgasm, feels the way Sam’s hips lose any coherent rhythm, instead pressing as tightly as they can, hummingbird hip thrusts as he comes deep, so blissfully deep, inside of Dean.

            Sam gasps, collapses across Dean’s back, but Dean’s already wriggling away, untangling himself from the Sasquatch’s limbs, fleeing to the bathroom. It’s only a few steps away, but it feels like a mile with the way his knees threaten to collapse and in his fear that Sam might see his face. He slams into the door, shuts it, locks it, behind him, doesn’t even bother turning on the light. He scrambles for the shower, pushing back the curtain and then fumbling for the handles in the dark. The water is loud, like he needs.

            Dean wipes at his face, tears still rolling down, wipes them on his forearm and with his fingers. He doesn’t dare sniffle, isn’t sure the water is loud enough to hide that tell-tale sign. He leans against the wall, nearly perforating his skull with the towel hook, and cries silently. He keeps hearing the words “Need you,” repeating in his head, thinks of how it felt to say them. He’ll come up with a way to explain them, pillow talk, or maybe he’ll pretend he hadn’t said them at all, and he’ll wash the evidence of his tears away in the shower water but for now he gives himself this moment to just lose it, shaking and scared and feeling shit he doesn’t understand.

 

            When John pulls up to the house on West Mariposa Drive, Chalendra is right there in the front yard, wearing bright orange ear plugs that match the belt sander spinning away under her hands, goggles, and a dust mask that covers her mouth and nose. He kills the Sierra Grande’s engine and waits for her to finish her task. A plume of wood dust rises up from a sturdy-looking cart. John thinks the wood might be birch, at least in hue, but then, he’s better acquainted with metal. She stops the sander, examines its texture looking for spots she may have missed and she must find one, because she starts the tool back up, going back to one spot with gusto.

            Though he’s her boyfriend, as she’d made abundantly and embarrassingly clear in front of Dean and Sam, he can’t help but feel like a creeper as he watches her work. She’s a knockout in cut-off shorts and a tube top, sweating in the summer heat and handling a power tool like a pro. If he didn’t already know her, he would have to get to know her, just watching her like this, have to introduce himself and pull out a level of charm he hasn’t used since his twenties.

            Once she sets down the sander, he gets out of the truck. The grass is striped from a recent mowing. Bluebells line the driveway and the path leading to the front door. This is rare for him, being able to see a peaceful suburban setting without some horrible tragedy at its heart. Every time he goes to the white picket fence areas, he’s in disguise, an FBI agent asking questions about a grisly murder or a missing child or a gas line repairman who needs to convince the family to get leave their house for a few hours so that he can purge something nasty from the basement or attic. The wholesome environment used to be all he knew, back when he still had Mary and hopes for the future, but it’s foreign to him now, seems naïve. Horror comes to these places just as frequently as trash-filled back alleys and pitch-black abandoned warehouses. The rows of bluebells serve the same purpose as his police uniform, masking the truth, burying it beneath something safe and ordered.

            John makes it to the sidewalk before Chal notices that she’s got company, her head turning to the sound of his boots. He smiles, pleased to see her and glad he’d been able to pull off the surprise. The temptation to tell her how close he’d been to San Antonio the previous night had been acute.

            “John Winchester!” she cries, voice barely muffled by the mask.

            Catching her up in his arms as she flings herself at him is one of the greatest sensations he’s ever felt. Her waist feels small where his forearms tighten around it. He can smell her coconut shampoo and her sweat and the dust of the cart. Her body is surging with energy and happiness. His own is doing similar, but primarily focused lower, and he’s glad that his jeans are restricting.

            “John!” she says again. When she looks at him, it’s through the goggles, but her eyes are still bright and excited, the brown of her irises overwhelming her pupils in the direct sunlight. “You surprised me with a visit!”

            He nods and pulls down the dust mask, quickly replacing it with his lips. At first, he’s kissing teeth, because she’s so smiley, but soon they’re on track, lips and tongues saying their own salutations. The heat of the day ratchets up as her kisses have the same effect they’ve had on him each time he’s had the opportunity to feel them. One of his hand threads through the hair of her ponytail while the other stays around her waist, pulls her possessively close to him.

            When they finally separate, though only so far, they’re both out of breath. She smiles, cheeks rosy red. “I like kissing,” she says.

            “You do it very well,” he says, also smiling.

            She laughs. “I’ve just been trying to emulate your actions.” Then, she seems to realize something. “You found a hunt here in San Antonio?” she asks urgently. “I hadn’t noticed anything!”

            Still twiddling with her hair, he shakes his head. “Nope, just thought I’d stop in and visit my gal.” The endearment feels good on his tongue, much like his gal does. “I figured you might want some company with Sam away.”

            She smiles. “You’re afraid I have been lonely! Well, I have been catching up on projects, as you can see. I do feel his absence though.” She gasps. “The house! Oh, I haven’t invited you in! Come and see my house!”

            Her hand entwines with his and then yanks hard turning his arm into a leash as she makes her way across the grass to the front door. His attempt to avoid trampling the flowers leads him to crash into her once they reach the porch. She’s sturdy, barely wobbles, but she does laugh. “Sorry, I should not be manhandling you!”

            “Please do,” he says with a wink.

            She pulls back the screen door and he enters, thrift store smell hitting him. He’d forgotten about the rickety second-hand furniture and dusty knick-knacks that her last house had, how he’d been sniffling the rest of the night because of the smell. He barely has a chance to look over the room before an animal is wriggling against his leg, demanding his full attention. He cranes his neck down, sees the beast, and freezes.

            Instead of a dog, as he’d expected for the instant before he’d looked down, he sees a small waheela, fluffy, and white with pink eyes that match… its collar.

            “Chalendra,” his throat sounds dry. “Why is there a waheela in your living room?”

            The thing whines, its front paws alternating between stepping on his boots, which he can’t feel for the steel-toe, and digging at the rug beneath them. Chal, behind him gasps.

            “Oh….” She says. She’s pulled up the goggles and they sit atop her head like two round hats. Biting her lower lip, she looks at the waheela then back up at John. “Well… I….”

            Annoyed with being ignored, the creature yips, sound not unlike the kind a puppy would make.  

            He waits but she pulls a Lucille Ball face, obviously not wanting to share the truth of the situation, and he feels the trickling of a headache seeping into the center of his forehead. He rubs a hand over his face as his brain catches up with the situation. Dean. Dean and Sam, they’d been the ones to do the final sweep of the waheela cave back in Michigan. “They brought it back to your house?” he asks, feels the edges of anger, the first drops of rain before a storm. “Dean let Sam bring a monster home as a pet?”

            Her skin-kissed shoulders lift in a shrug. “It is a very tiny monster,” she says.

            He shouldn’t glare at her. After all, she had been with him while they’d been going against the hunter’s code, hadn’t participated directly in the thing’s rescue. He can’t help it, though, because, as he reminds her, “It isn’t going to stay that size forever! When it goes into its blood lust, it’s going to kill people, small or not!”

            All joviality gone from her, only because he’s yelling and mad in the living room into which she had just invited him, she replies. Her face is calm, confident, as are her words, and it helps, somehow, because it doesn’t feel like she’s making excuses. “It has a very well-constructed cage located in a heavily-sigiled area of quarantine during its rage times. As for its inherent wild traits, these have been about inconvenient, but really more similar in nature to a puppy or cub than an actual feral beast.” She smiles, softly, tentatively. “She’s actually quite sweet.”

            He paces, not knowing what to do with his anger, unsure where to direct it in Dean’s absence. “I raised him better than that. That thing’s parents tore apart a teenage girl! You think you can contain it, but you can’t.” She doesn’t contradict him with words, but her face does. “It only takes one slip!” he yells.

            “John Winchester, you will keep your voice down in my home,” she says, voice quiet, threatening in its firmness.

            He stops moving, rubs his forehead.  He’s not mad at her; he’s mad at his son for allowing Sam to do such a stupid dangerous thing. “Sorry, Chal. Goddammit. I could beat that boy.”

            The hand she places on her shoulder works, gets his attention and calms him. “Dean allowed a _hunter_ to bring her to a _hunter_ household. You must remember that we are not weak, not as vulnerable as other humans.” Then, after a moment, she loops her arms around his waist. Nose to nose, she says, “They showed compassion and you should be proud.”

            He huffs. “Compassion. That just means weakness.”

            “Sam’s greatest strength is his compassion. His heart has the power to change the fate of this world.”

            Her conviction, a solid structure nearly visible in her words, gives him pause. He would never say bad things about her son in front of her, but more than that, John remembers how frighteningly powerful Sam had been in Ohio. Abilities like that, Sam could very easily be something that needed hunting. Things like compassion keep it from being so, keep John and others like him from having to consider Sam the enemy.

            “I don’t like it,” he mutters, childishly.

            She kisses him, quickly. “I like her.”

            “Her?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

            “Cujo!” Chal says happily, pointing at the white fluffy beast.

            He groans. “Dean _named_ the damn thing?”

              

            Sex, which has more devotees than Starbucks, is not overrated. Sam had expected it to be like really good masturbation, just stimulated genitals and relaxing physical release, hadn’t expected to feel the arousal in every millimeter of his body, the pleasure striking parts of him that he’s fairly sure don’t have nerve endings; when he’d come inside of Dean, he’d been positive that even the tips of his hair had enjoyed it.

            That’s not to say it was perfect, because there were moments when Sam was convinced that the whole endeavor was a disaster, like when he’d first tried out his _master_ voice and then waited for Dean to mock him or when he’d pulled all those sex accessories from his duffel (the culmination of several deliveries from Amazon.com and one remarkably humiliating trip to Adult Novelties on New Braunfels ave.) and Dean _had_ mocked him. Then, of course, there was the moment he’d realized that, despite every kinesic and audio clue he was receiving to the contrary, Dean’s dick had been completely limp and Sam had instantly felt like the lamest, least experienced lover ever to climb into another man’s bed. He’d thought he was doing so well, Dean writhing around in his restraints making those puppy-like whimpers that were somehow just as hot as Dean sucking his dick. The discovery of Dean’s flaccidity had knocked the wind out of his sails and out of his lungs.

            Joaquin had told him, as they watched their fellow classmates skate around the frozen Thread Lake, “Every girl is different.” He’d been talking specifically about Deanna Lasky and his own cunnilingual prowess, a boast half-heartedly disguised as advice imparted by an under-qualified sexually active fifteen-year-old boy, but it had flickered in his mind as Dean lay beneath him begging in the most desperate of voices for Sam to fuck him while his cock slumbered against his pelvis. There were puzzle pieces drawing together and Sam didn’t have any idea what the whole pictures looked like, but he wanted to, wanted to fit those pieces that he could together, and start understanding who Dean was underneath the masks that Sam was only beginning to see that he wore. Dean needed to feel used to enjoy sex, needed to be at someone’s mercy. Sam didn’t need to know why, at least not just then while they were in the moment, just needed to give him that. If Dean needed to be mistreated to get off, then Sam was totally ready to be an asshole.

            The morning after Sam has discovered the awesome of sex, they’re putting impressive dents in the plates of greasy breakfast foods, piling away the drippy hotcakes, crispy hash browns, too thin bacon strips, juicy sausage, and boysenberry jam-topped wheat toast.

            “I haven’t eaten this much bacon in my whole life,” Sam says.

            Dean speaks with a mouthful of hash brown. “Must’ve been tough to get a hold of, what with Chal being vegetarian and all.”

            “When I was little, yeah. I didn’t have any meat at all til I was like, six, I think. Hard to miss something you’ve never had.”

            Dean quirks his head to the side and squints, considering. “I don’t know. I kinda miss Catherine Zeta-Jones and I’ve never had her.” He grins, proud of his joke.

            “So, where are we going next?”

            Dean shrugs. “Dunno. We’ll probably just drive, pick up some newspapers in the next place we land. Either that or Dad will call with a lead.”

            As freeing as it is to just do the pin in the map method that Dean is suggesting, its inefficiency irks Sam. “Why don’t we check the net; then we wouldn’t waste time driving somewhere that’s a bust.”

            “You in a hurry?” teases Dean, boysenberry jam oozing across his lower lip.

Sam can’t believe, with those full, enticing lips, that Dean isn’t a good kisser. He isn’t terrible, just sort of robotic, maybe a little cold. Sam had felt like he needed to compensate, probably bringing in too much tongue and saliva, to make up for Dean’s lackluster osculation. Yeah, the previous night hadn’t been perfect.

            “Just seems easier, that’s all. I can drop by the local library and find a case in minutes rather than days.”

            “Cool, well, we can do that then,” says Dean.

            His quick agreement surprises Sam. “What?” You’re not gonna call me a nerd and ignore my suggestion?”

            “You’re a nerd whether I say it or not, so why bother?”

            Sam rolls his eyes, then hides his smile behind his coffee mug.

 

             He doesn’t even bother to tell Dean about the first two case leads, possible haunting and possible possession, that he stumbles upon in the Miami Herald because he remembers Dean’s rant about Florida, and would rather not have to listen to it every mile that they’re in the sunshine state. The possible case of exsanguinated redheads north of Seattle that he does tell Dean about earns him some kind of “Yay, vampires!” blowjob right there on the passenger side of the Impala, verifies that he chose correctly.

            On the 550, Dean talks about how he learned about cars from John, who used to be a mechanic before he became a hunter. His voice is the essence of sentimentality whenever he talks about the Impala, but more so when he tells Sam about the day that his dad passed it down to him, a four-wheeled legacy. Sam lightens the mood with the story of his first driving attempt; it’s been four years and he still wants to blame that fence for being too stealthy.

            On the 64, they take a piss and gas break. Dean buys Red Vines and Doritos.

            On the 491, they swap dirty jokes. Sam manages to remember a few of Chal’s angel limericks and Dean laughs.

            On the 191, Sam goes into details about the day he’d had his first kiss, which Dean had identified months back as the worst date in the world. Dean rolls his eyes when he hears that Sam had met her in a library, but is otherwise very considerate, even looks sympathetic when Sam gets to the part with Amy ganking her own mom to save his skin. He also talks about Todd and the grocery store groping, how he’d liked the sensation better of scratchy chin and large hands, even if there was none of the emotional weight that his kiss with Amy had brought.

            He asks Dean what his first kiss had been like and Dean says, “I was ten. He was nineteen.” Dean doesn’t explain and Sam doesn’t ask.

            On the 70, Dean suggests they find a motel. Sam, looks up from _Maus_ and, noticing the darkening sky, agrees.

           

            While Sam makes his nightly call to Chal, Dean showers and shaves. He adds a few Visine drops to his road-weary eyes and brushes his teeth, hoping to banish the onion ring breath from lunch. By the time he steps out of the bathroom, he knows he’s got that look going on, the one that means he can pull anyone he wants, and he’s looking forward to Sam ogling him just for a little outside confirmation, but the son of a bitch is lying on the bed, forearm over his eyes, and Dean’s pretty sure that he’s asleep judging by the deep rise and fall of his chest.

            Well, they’ve spent nearly every moment together anyway. Dean’s a touch disappointed that he’s not going to get to drag Sam with his fake ID to the local watering hole, not going to get Sam tipsy with strong spirits and provide ample opportunity for the creation of stories that Dean will never let him live down, but it’ll also be nice to be solo again for a while. Out of deference to Sam’s age and inexperience, and also since he’s never just left before, Dean actually leaves a note. “Bar – back a.m,” he writes. He looks around trying to decide where the kid will see it, ends up leaving it on the toilet lid. Closing the heavy door as gently as possible, Dean sneaks out into the night, leather jacket slung over one shoulder.

            The Impala’s tires squeal as Dean swerves to make the turn in time to get into the parking lot of The Luck of the Draw Saloon. He’d nearly missed it and with a name like that, Dean definitely wants to check it out. It’s been at least a few weeks since he’s exercised his poker face and now that his money has to go twice as far, now seems like the perfect time to give it a go. Unfortunately, he forgets that he’s in Utah, and is disappointed to find that the name is no indicator of the type of activities he can enjoy there. At least the saloon part holds true. He orders a scotch from a man who never once looks at his face despite checking his ID.

            The place has a fair share of customers, not too busy, not too quiet. Dean drinks and considers both the people and his options for the evening; there is the potential for overlap of the two. There’s a gal with long black hair and sad eyes. She’s looking back and forth between the happy hour menu on the table and the door. If she’s being stood up, then she’ll be a sure bet if Dean wants to pick her up. There’s a man who hasn’t stopped looking at Dean since he came in, but Dean’s tastes don’t generally extend to guys in their forties, even if they are more experienced, and there’s also something about him that Dean just doesn’t trust. On some nights, that would make the guy a prime catch with Dean just letting him do what he wanted, acting like a victim when he could have the guy incapacitated in three seconds.

            It takes time, time enough for the girl to give up on her date and leave all alone, for Dean to realize that he’s just not feeling it tonight. The alcohol is warm in his belly and he orders another one. When he turns back to the room from talking with the bartender, the creep is there at his elbow, smile curling like the Grinch’s.

            “What are you drinking?” asks the guy.

            Dean isn’t going to go home with this man, knows that already, and so as a fellow meat market shopper himself, he saves the guy some time. “Not gay, sorry.”

            “I’ve never heard of that drink,” the man jokes.

            If this guy intends to seduce a straight guy that looks as good as Dean, he’d better learn some better lines. Dean thinks that Sammy could teach this man about witty comebacks. “Just trying to save you the time.”

            “It’s only ten,” points out the guy.

            “We’re in Utah,” counters Dean. The creep has too many negatives going on to think that ten isn’t too late to get laid tonight. He’s older, in a straight bar, in Utah, and if Dean remembers correctly, it’s also a weeknight.

            The man laughs. “True enough. Well, good luck on your hunt, then.”

            It takes Dean a second to get that the guy isn’t talking about werewolves and ghosts. “You too, man.”

            The guy walks away and Dean drinks the second glass of scotch. It’s hard to be enthusiastic about fucking someone that isn’t as hot as what he has back in his hotel room. In a way, it would be easier to go home with someone here. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about having another emotional bitch fit, crying like a baby while getting fucked by Sam just because he feels something. He asks himself for the millionth time that day why he’d said he needed Sam, isn’t sure it’s true but knows that it is how he felt at that moment. That he’s also losing interest in fucking others is a serious red flag. It’s one thing for Dean to give his body to someone else to smash to pieces, his heart is a whole other story.

            He throws back a couple of kamikazes and worries. Sometimes he makes conversation with the people around him, but mostly he thinks. He makes his way back to the hotel before midnight, buzzed, maybe a touch drunk, but nothing that won’t burn off in another hour or two.

            Sam is under the blankets now, just a bit of brown hair sticking up from the fluffy white pillow in the light from the open door. Dean closes it quietly behind him, but Sam wakes anyway. “Have fun?” the raspy sleep voice of Sam asks.

            “Yeah, go back to sleep.”

            “Okay.” It’s a testament to Sam’s tiredness that he doesn’t argue.

            Dean gets ready for bed; this is mostly just stripping down and emptying his alcohol bladder. On the toilet he finds a note in Sam’s handwriting. It says, “Sleeping – conscious a.m.” Dean chuckles before wadding up the message and chucking it in the trash. Smart ass even in his sleep.

           

            Movies only focus on the loss of virginity if the female is under eighteen or the male is over eighteen, so Chal doesn’t know how to feel about it now since even her human body is way past the eighteenth year. So much of how she’s been taught to act in relation to other humans has come from Hollywood and, barring that, Sam. She knows how she feels about the sexual experience itself. That is pom-poms and Sam’s cinnamon pull-a-parts and finally crossing the snowy egret off her rare bird watching list. What she isn’t certain about is what comes next, how human society expects her to feel about herself, how she is meant to change the way she interacts with others. If she was a more movie-compatible age, then other women would think her promiscuous. As she has yet to make friends of either gender in Texas, this isn’t something she needs to concern herself with. The man that she “loses her virginity to” (as though it was an object to be presented to others), will treat her differently depending on his attractiveness and the point in the film during which they had sex. John is remarkably, almost angelically attractive, so that could bode poorly for her. Another mark against her, is that their relationship is new, which she likens to being early in the film. The female protagonist never ends up at the end of the film with the man she loses her virginity with in the first half of the film.

            It’s all very confusing.

            John, flared nostrils vibrating, is sleeping beside her, unaware of her confusion.

            She hadn’t answered Sam’s nightly check-in call earlier, had been a bit too busy with the toe-curling, fingertip-numbing, body-purring activities. It’s very late, but if Sam was in the house now, she knows that she would go to his room and wake him up, ask him for advice, and let him soothe her fears, so she’s going to do it now and not let the distance change their relationship.

            Moving lithely, she sneaks out of bed and shuts the door behind her as slowly and carefully as she can. The house is dark and she flips on the kitchen light, hears the jingle of Cujo’s collar from her place at the foot of the stairs that lead up to Sam’s room. As she dials Sam’s phone number, the waheela comes into the room, shuffling and blinking, still half asleep.

            “Chal?” he asks, voice groggy. She’s amused to think of the resemblance between him and his pet who is lying on the tile next to her feet.

            “Hello, Sam. I am safe.”

            He exhales. “Good. What’s going on then?”

            She searches for proper wording, but can’t seem to find it, trips around the basic idea instead. “I’ve lost my virginity and I am not sure how I’m supposed to act now. I mean, what I should expect to feel differently and how people will be treating me now. If I should now try to find someone less attractive or if he really is the man at the end of the film.”

            “You what?” he asks, voice louder.

            “I had sex.”

            “What? Tonight? Wait, don’t answer that. With who?”

            Chal scratches off a bit of dried tomato sauce from the counter with her fingernail. “With my boyfriend John.”

            She knows Sam well enough to picture his expression as he speaks and it makes her smile. “Oh God, Chal. I did not need to know that! You… ugh. Chal, you’re weird. I’m just putting that out there.”

            “Yes, but how am I supposed to act now? Is he still my boyfriend? I wouldn’t want to think that I lost my virginity to the jock with anger issues.”

            “Jock? Anger issues? Oh man.” Sam makes a noise like a groan and a sputter mixed together. She’s sure his phone must be covered with his saliva. “It’s not a movie. You’re just you, okay?”

            “I haven’t changed?”

            “Well, yeah, you probably have. I mean, it’s a big deal, but... God, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

            A voice, too low to be understandable, rumbles from the background. Sam answers a question the voice must have asked, “Believe me, Dude, you do _not_ want to know.”

            “Oh, did I wake Dean up?”

            “Yeah,” he says. “Look, only you get to decide what it means to you, okay? If you don’t want to change, don’t. If you do, do. You’re still Chalendra Ackles. This doesn’t make you any less of a hunter or a mother or, or, you know what.”

            “Or former angel,” she guesses.

            “Yeah. This is just gonna be another part of you. It won’t be the only thing that defines you.”

            Chal smiles, heart warmed. Just as she knew he would, Sam has said the perfect words to allay her fears. She misses being able to hug him, misses him period. “Thank you,” she says gratefully.

            “You’re welcome. I guess? You really need to get some female friends for stuff like this.”

            “I will attempt to do so before you return home.”

            “Awesome. Good night, Chal.”

            “Good night, Sam.”

 

            Dean and Sam pass the drive through Montana exactly the same as the day before. It’s all about stories from both their lives set to the backdrop of farm land and AC/DC, off-color jokes and Night Ranger. When they pull off for food, bacon cheeseburgers, Sam shows him some more pages of _Hunters_ that he’s drawn, some while on the road and some in the hotel during the night when Dean’s out cold. Dean has never had such a good time traveling to a hunt. The years when he hunted with dad had mostly passed in silence, amicable enough but rarely fun. When Dad was sober he was tense, would have been considered by most as paranoid, but then, most didn’t know that bumps in the night could kill you. Now that he’s got Sam providing him a counter-example, his childhood feels just a bit sadder, like it needed the help. It would have been a lot more fun if Sam had been around then, filling the Impala with sarcasm and bright smiles.

            “We can get into Everett by tonight, but it’s not like we can question witnesses at midnight anyway,” says Dean around Missoula.

            “And, if we luck into finding the nest, we’ll want to do it by day.”

            “Psh. How fast do you and Chal find nests?” Dean scoffs. It takes him and Dad weeks. An appropriate comparison, finding a vampire nest is like finding a needle in a haystack.

            Sam rolls his eyes. “I said if we luck into it. Good to plan for every contingency.”

            “Learn that in boy scouts, Sammy?” Dean teases. Sam’s quiet and so he takes a peek at the kid’s face. “Oh man, you really were a boy scout?”

            Sam plays it off. “Lots of guys were boy scouts.”

            With an evil grin, Dean says, “Guess that explains where you learned those knots.”

 

            Every now and then, Dean gets an idea light bulb so bright that he doesn’t end up minding all the negative consequences that follow its implementation. His brain has outdone itself tonight. Between the taste of Bayern Pilsener on his tongue, the feel of medium rare steak in his belly, the touch of the warm night air, the sight of the ridiculously twinkly stars brighter than a rich chick’s engagement ring, and the clinking sound of Baby’s engine cooling beneath his back, this might be the best night ever.

            “Is this crappy beer or do I just not like beer?” asks Sam, a warm shoulder against his.

            “The beer is fine. You’ll get used to it.”

            “How many would I have to have to get drunk?”

            Dean laughs. “Only have a six-pack, Sammy. Should have told me you wanted to get drunk; I’d have bought harder stuff.”

            The breeze is cool, brings with it the scent of factory. Dean considers going for a second bottle, but he’s so damned comfortable on the Impala’s hood, cradled by the metal surrogate mom that she is. “You ever been drunk?”

            “Nope,” says Sam, sounding surprisingly unself-conscious about it. Dean figures he must be as relaxed as he is.

            “That goes on the to-do list then, you know, once we’re out of nest range.”

            “Sounds good.”

            “Big mammoth like you, it ain’t gonna be cheap.”

            “With my luck, I’ll end up being a lightweight.” The metal pops as Sam rolls onto his side. Dean turns his head and looks at Sam’s face illuminated only by moonlight. He can tell that Sam’s thoughts are serious, probably brought on by the peaceful night. “Why did you start with the submissive stuff?” asks Sam as though he’s asking what time it is. Dean’s glad he didn’t go for the second beer because he’d be doing a spit take.

            Minutes pass while Dean considers whether or not he wants to answer. He doesn’t talk about that part of himself. Even when he’s doing it, there’s this spring-loaded trap ready to send him back to his real self at the slightest sign of judgment. That he hasn’t felt that with Sam, especially with how sexually green the kid is, is a freaking miracle. Sam’s always just so grateful for anything that Dean put out there. He digs that acceptance. Whether he answers or not really comes down then to if Dean even knows why. Like anything sexual, there are always going to be reasons that make the brain pop up its “This feels good” signals, but in his experience, these are best left unexplored, good to keep the magic real by not learning how the trick is performed.

            Dean sighs. “Not sure I know, Kid.”

             Sam nods, accepting the answer. “Can I ask another?”

            “Why not?”

            “Have you ever been in love?”

            That’s a much easier question, not just because it’s a yes or no one, but because he knows the answer. “Nope. Was never in one place long enough.”

            Sam lays back. Dean would ask Sam the same question but since he knows Sam’s only gotten to first base with one gal and had a quickie make out once with a guy, he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer. He does, however, think of a question that’s been bugging him. “Why do you call your mom Chal?”

            “Because that’s her name, dumbass.”

            “Whatever, dumbass. Most kids say ‘mom.’”

            Sam laughs. “I’m just kidding. Well, Chal’s my adopted mom.”

            “Whoa, wait!” Dean sits up on the hood, arms behind him to keep him upright. “She’s not your real mom?”

            Sam’s eyes glitter up at him. He’s amused by throwing Dean for a loop with his revelation. “Nope, my mom and dad died when I was a baby.”

            “Wow. Why didn’t you say that?”

            “What’s the difference?” he asks. “She raised me.”

            Dean thinks that he would never be able to accept another woman as his mom, but what does he know? He barely remembers his mom. His dad has had to be both his parents. Sam’s lucky he’s gotten another shot. Looking at it that way, it doesn’t seem so bad.

            He lies back down. “Makes sense, I guess. I’m lucky Dad didn’t bite it the night my mom did.”

            Sam frowns, big dark eyes concerned. “I…” he stops, sips again from the bottle though his face clearly shows he’s not a fan. “That’s what you and your dad are hunting? Why you’re targeting demons?”

            Sam’s intelligence saved Dean the trouble of explaining, and that is a relief. He shuts his eyes, lets a “yep,” pop his lips.

            “I hope I can help get him.”

            Dean smiles. “We’ve got a better shot with you than we ever had before.”

            “So, I guess Chal suggesting I join you guys was a good thing. And, not just for the kinky sex.”

            The beer bottle on his belly rises up and down as Dean laughs. “Yeah, Sammy, it’s a good thing.”

            The night passes both slowly and quickly as they talk about things they haven’t before, not with others. By the time they finish the six-pack, it’s nearly dawn and they’ve run out of things to say, have been just lying side by side on the Impala enjoying each other’s company.

 

            The thirteen days it takes to locate, case, infiltrate, and eliminate the vampire nest are filled with interviewing witnesses, checking the marks on bloodless bodies, and watching security camera footage. The nights are sci-fi movies, take-out, and Dean’s mouth and hands. A goth chick tells them about her friend who left a nightclub with a heavily-accented pale stranger and never returned home and Dean climbs into the shower with Sam, works an orgasm out of him with shampoo and experienced hands. As FBI Agent Tyler, Dean confirms the deep lacerations on the neck of one victim, then he returns to the hotel room where Sam has managed to get the internet on his computer (Seattle, it seems, is a little ahead of the game technology-wise) and he crawls, still in his suit, between Sam’s legs and fellates him while Sam tries not to crush the life out of his laptop’s keyboard. As state police, they get the security guard of the nightclub to allow them access to hours of mind-numbing security footage and Sam slurps on Cup of Noodles while Dean slurps on Sam.

            Sam never knows when to expect these impromptu orgasms, is starting to have a Pavlovian response to Dean’s presence. All he needs is that twinkle in Dean’s eyes, sometimes a full-on wink if Dean’s really frisky, and his dick hardens. It worries Sam. That’s due in part because he can’t help feeling like it’s a bad idea to become habituated to something he can’t keep; summer will be over eventually and then he’ll only be seeing Dean sporadically, when he comes through town in between hunts. Primarily though it worries Sam because he doesn’t understand what Dean gets out of it. Whenever Sam tries to reciprocate, reaching out with his fingers, Dean shies away, attempts to turn the focus back around, and Dean’s cock is never fully hard. He doubts now that Dean did come when they fucked, the time that he’d rushed off to the shower immediately after Sam had filled his ass with much overdue ejaculate. It’s completely possible to enjoy sex without orgasm, Sam understands this, but he isn’t even sure that Dean does enjoy it. The noises he makes, the words that he says, the way his eyes sparkle greedily while he does those things to Sam’s body that Sam’s pretty sure no one else could ever do, they all say he enjoys it. But then, after Sam gets off, Dean is back to Dean again, as though a director has called the scene to an end. The disconnect is jarring and it becomes more and more uncomfortable each time it happens. Sam wants to give too, wants to offer something that Dean wants. God knows he’d do anything for Dean. It isn’t until the night that they burn the vampire nest that Dean finally asks for something in return.

            All Sam can smell, even after his shower, is the smoke. He swabs his finger around both nostrils trying to pluck imaginary ash from the tiny hairs there. When he emerges from the bathroom, white stiff towel snug on his hips, he asserts, “Next time, we get _out_ of the building _before_ setting it on fire.”

            “Agreed,” says Dean who took his shower first, giving nature apparently not extending past the bedroom. He’s lying on the bed, muscular body still dotted with water, little lickable drops in sporadic places. Sam can see this because he’s not wearing a stitch of clothing. He hasn’t seen Dean naked since the mummy hunt and the pleasant sensations of that night flood his brain, slowing the cogs of comprehension, and it takes him probably a half minute to notice that beside Dean’s him, spread out, as though on display, across a wet towel, are four knives in descending order of size.

            “Uh, Dean?” he asks.

            Dean smiles a particularly mischievous smile. “I got an idea, Sammy.”

            Those exact words in that exact tone are how trips to the ER start. “Why am I worried all of a sudden?” he asks.

            “So, all this hunting vampire crap got me thinking…” starts Dean. “Stop looking at me like that!”

            “What look?” Sam asks, genuinely ignorant, and hoping he wasn’t only staring at Dean’s dick.

            “Like I’m asking you to give a reach-around to a werewolf.”

            Sam thinks that if Dean had wanted to avoid triggering any trepidation, he shouldn’t have lined up weapons on the bed, but Dean’s ability to strategize seems solely relegated to field tactics. “Okay,” Sam says. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, repeats a chant three times, and adjusts his facial features, letting them relax into the affection and trust that he feels for his friend. When he opens his eyes again, he feels calmer and more open to considering Dean’s idea. “Sorry. What’s your idea?”

            Dean smiles from his creepy fungal toenail to his highest freckle. “So, we’ve ganked the blood suckers, right? Well, I was thinking maybe you’d want to see what the big deal is.”

            Sam blinks, completely and blissfully uncomprehending. “What?”

            “You know, with the whole drinking blood thing.” Dean’s toes wiggle, excitement or nervousness, Sam can’t tell. “My blood.”

            In Michigan, there were these two goth girls who carried around vials of each other’s blood as necklaces. The other kids thought it was weird, sure, but about par for the course for goth chicks. Sam, though, knew that there is power in blood. Even if Chal hadn’t told him, he would know it instinctively. He didn’t judge them; they were just kids playing with things that they didn’t know could turn real dark real fast, like little girls using Ouija  boards at slumber parties, but he’d wanted to warn them, to tell them that there really are supernatural creatures out there and that nine times out of ten, they crave human blood. Messing with something powerful, something with allure for the dark monsters they fight, should be something that Dean should know better than to do. Even if they don’t bring ritual into this, it’s a dangerous thing, a stupid thing to suggest. And that’s just the hunter inside him talking; that’s not even touching on the fact that Dean wants Sam to bleed him.

            “Now don’t freak out,” says Dean to Sam’s silent panic. “Think about it. You’ve never tried it. You might never find anyone else to offer again. And if you don’t like how it tastes or whatever, you can still keep cutting me. I’ll still let you.”

            “Jesus,” Sam says. Dean’s eyes are pools of supplication. “I don’t want to cut you, Dean!”

            The hurt that he sees in those beautiful green eyes tells him that this is more than a hunt-related whim, more of an unfulfilled desire thing. It’s all nuts, all of this. Then Dean is sitting up, posture hunched, covering his genitals and belly. **The vulnerable places** , Sam thinks. He’d been so desperate to have Dean ask him for something and here it is but it scares him, not just the activity, but the reasons that are compelling Dean’s desire to be sliced into. He would pay good money for Dean to just want a blowjob, to just want to be held gently, anything that Sam can give him that he knows won’t harm Dean’s psyche more than it already is.

            Sam moves to the bed, maneuvering deftly to avoid the trip trap his towel makes as he does, thighs wrapped by the white cloth like a vice, knees on the bed behind Dean. He places his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey,” Sam says. “That’s a good thing, Dean. You shouldn’t want me to cut you.”

            The broad lovely shoulders he’s touching shrug. “I do, though,” words spoken so softly, they’re almost lost to the patter of Seattle rain outside.

            “Why?” asks Sam. He’s thinking about their talk in the fields of Montana, about how he’d almost felt like he understood what Dean is seeking.

            The shrug straightens. Dean voice sounds confident when he says, “Because I trust you.”

            “Then you should trust that I wouldn’t hurt you.” It’s too rational, because Dean’s libido has never shown any rationality.

            Sam shimmies over to Dean’s side, pressing his hip against Dean’s, and he looks at Dean’s face, hoping to judge how badly this is going. But Dean doesn’t look upset. He looks, though Sam would never say it out loud, sentimental. “I know you wouldn’t. Not unless I asked you to. Which I am.”

            “Ask for something else,” he pleads. “It’s too much.” He wants so badly to give Dean a fraction of the pleasure that he’s given him, but he doesn’t want to feed Dean’s demons by indulging whatever dark part of Dean craves this pain and humiliation.

            The light from the dim bedside lamp flutters through Dean’s long lashes. It’s almost easy to forget about the more feminine aspect of his appearance, full lips and lashes disguised by bow legs and machismo, but there are times, like now, when the fact that Dean is _beautiful_ hits him, slams into his chest and steals his breath. Those lips are in a minor pout, disappointment making him look younger, more vulnerable. Sam tries something he hasn’t before, at least not with Dean untethered. He leans in to kiss those pouting lips, feels suddenly desperate to erase the disappointment, to assure Dean that he’s still cared about, still wanted, even if he wants what Sam can’t give.

            Dean lurches backwards as though Sam’s about to slam a fist into his face instead of his lips. “Hey, no worries man, it was just a thought.” He slaps Sam’s towel-covered leg and stands up, personality already shifted to normal, non-servile Dean. “So, we could go drinking though I guess it’s a bit late for bars to still be open,” he says reaching out to grab his jeans that are dangling carelessly over the damask fabric recliner. Sam stops him, one hand firmly gripping Dean’s forearm.

            “Just this once, Dean,” he says, means it.

            The other Dean, bedroom Dean, the lovely compliant masochist, nods, absolutely no time between transitions. Sam wonders if he’s going mad indulging in this madness with his lover, but he can’t help wanting to give all that he can, to try anything he must, to make Dean happy. He’s just not sure where the line lies between indulgence and abuse and whether he’ll know or not if he crosses it. “You’re going to have to tell me, clearly what you want and what…. Well, what you want. One cut? A hundred? Do you want it to hurt? Do you want me to scare you?!” he stops as his voice shrills, fear lacing his questions. For the first time since he’s started fooling around with Dean, Sam worries what this dynamic is doing to him, who he’s going to be at the end of this, after all the dominance and head games and love disguised as sex.

            “Make me tell you,” Dean whispers. His eyes close and he waits with childish glee etched into the crook of his smile.

            Sam shakes his head and pats Dean’s arm. “No, Dean. If I’m doing this, we’re talking about it first, like it or not.”

            Dean’s eyes open and he looks sheepish. He nods and re-takes his seat on the bed. “Want you to treat me like the priest.”

            “The one in Clever?” asks Sam.

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay, but I didn’t cut that guy.” Sam’s trying to follow and he can tell that talking about this is really embarrassing Dean, darting eyes and lowered head, that he doesn’t like answering questions out of Slave Dean Character. “So, what parts should I do? Asking questions?”

            “No.”

            Sam swallows. “Acting like I don’t care?” Dean nods, as Sam suspected he would. “Like I want you to hurt?” Another nod of humiliated affirmation. Sam’s stomach is swirling. He hates this, every part of his brain screaming that this is a bad idea, but he’s going to anyway, going to give it a try. “Okay, Dean, but… hey, can you look at me a second?”

            Dean does, but in a cautious way, as though expecting Sam to back out. He’s in a limbo of his two selves, Dean Dean ready to play off the whole thing and Slave Dean ready to acquiesce to anything.

            “Whatever we do, however I act until… well, until we get some clothes on, I guess, I _do_ care. Okay?”

            Even though Dean flinches at the words, as though it hurts him, Sam refuses to regret his words because dammit, Dean needs to understand. “Even though you’re a huge pain in the ass, you’re still my best friend, and I think you’re awesome.” It’s his turn to feel embarrassed because he’s never said anything like that to Dean, to anyone but Chal really.

            “So, buddy moment over?” asks Dean, smile curling the right-hand corner of his mouth.

            “Shut up, asshat,” says Sam. He pushes at Dean’s shoulder.

“You’re going to like it, I swear.”

            **Then I’ll fucking kill myself** , thinks Sam. He lets the thought stay far behind his tongue. “I’m gonna go put on some pants first.” As he’s pulling on his baggy grey sweats, comfortable pants he now thinks of as his hotel pants, a thought occurs to him. “Quick question. When does it end?”

            Dean, who is now lying back on the bed grinning like the cat that ate the canary, says casually, “When you come.”

            “And if I don’t?” asks Sam, because he’s pretty damned sure that making Dean bleed isn’t going to get him off.

            “You will.”

            Now, with his pants on and Dean’s words ringing through his head, Sam feels more confident, more ready to commit to this scenario. If he’s going to do it, he’s going to do it right. He digs around in his duffel, finds handcuffs, metal shining like new since they’re used so infrequently. When he approaches the bed with them, Dean squirms, this time definitely from excitement. “I’m going to handcuff you,” Sam says, knowing that Dean won’t mind the spelling out of actions, knows that he’ll like it. “Hold your wrists out for me.”

            Obedience, instant and intense, Dean’s arms shoot upwards.

            “So eager,” says Sam, a phrase he’s used more than once as Dean’s mouth has gone to work on his dick, one that he always responds well to. “You like being used. That’s good. I like…” he clicks the first cuff over the thick wrist taking care not to close it too tight, as tight as Dean would probably prefer it. “Using you,” he finishes, almost believes his own words. “And I’m going to use you good tonight, Dean. Going to make you…” He clicks the second cuff. “Bleed.”

            As though a cold breeze has blown through the room, Dean shivers, nipples tightening into sharp points and he chews on his lip. Sam can’t help it, seeing Dean aroused makes his breathing shallow. There is nothing sexier than a horny Dean. “Lower your arms,” he commands. With wrists connected, he can only position his hands so many ways; he lowers them, prayer style, folded fingers, across his sternum.

            Sam climbs atop Dean, ass on soft warm cock. It is impossible for Sam to hide the affection he feels. “Dean,” he whispers. He can look at Dean like this, when he’s handcuffed, and he won’t get snapped at, won’t get chewed out or get called a girl. He seizes the opportunity, drinking in the firm pecs, the cords of neck, the bristle of fur on chin, the look of desire in glassy eyes.

            All good things must end. Sam reaches over for a knife. It doesn’t matter which one, large or small, he knows they’re all sharp, knows how little pressure he’ll need to draw blood. Their eye contact never breaks as he takes the knife in hand, guessing by handle which one fate has chosen. And Sam tries, as hard as he can, to look at Dean as he would a demon. If it really was a demon beneath him, he wouldn’t be getting hard, and he wouldn’t want to toss away the knife and kiss until they both died of dehydration.   

            Instead, he turns his attention to the knife, hovers it over the tender flesh of Dean’s belly, as though he’s contemplating slicing into his entrails. He shakes his head, moves the blade higher, over the handcuffs to Dean’s throat where he can see his pulse pounding a steady firm beat. Dean swallows. Sam allows the tip of the knife to rest against Dean’s Adam’s apple, ready to pull away the instant that Dean moves, but he doesn’t. He lies perfectly still except for the stirrings of his cock which Sam feels beneath him. So fucked up, his lover is.

            “Gonna slice into that sexy throat of yours,” Sam whispers. Dean shivers, thighs clenching tightly. “What do you think you taste like, Dean? Think I’ll find it as delicious as your cock?”

            Dean whimpers and Sam’s disappointed in his own cock which jumps at the sound even with the knife hovering over Dean’s throat, and fuck, he doesn’t want this to be hot. He wants to be revolted, but it’s Dean beneath him, helpless and hungry and everything Sam’s daydreamed about since he discovered masturbation.

            He positions the blade to the side of Dean’s neck, feels with his fingers to avoid jugular and carotid, careful even though he won’t be cutting deeply; he wants to make sure if he slips or Dean jerks that he’s not going to kill his sweet dear friend. “I’m going to cut you now. Hold still, Toy. Gonna make you bleed for me.”

            A whimper and then Sam’s doing it, sliding the sharp edge over Dean’s skin, gently but smooth, and the whimper changes direction, becomes an inhale of surprise. The red blood bubbles immediately, following the line of the cut like a zipper. Sam stares down at the blood, at the color so bright in the dim room. Then he’s there, hands against Dean’s chest (doesn’t even remember dropping the knife) and his tongue is licking up the forming pool.

            His mind sizzles, synapses overloading with the heat that flows through him like the taste of copper does on his tongue. He hears himself moan, feels his fingers digging into the skin beneath him, and then his whole mouth is on the wound, not just his tongue, and he’s sucking. Beneath him, Dean is bucking his hips, cock firming into the cleft between Sam’s asscheeks. It tastes amazing, like life being offered up to him, like power handed to him on the delicious platter of Dean’s neck. His lips nudge the ripple of skin where it divides, encouraging the blood to flow more freely and it makes sounds come out of Dean’s mouth. It’s tangy and sour and he can also taste remnants of soap or aftershave that mingle with the blood because he’s licking at Dean’s whole neck now, not just the wound and he’s licking up Dean’s chin, making his way to those fucking lips, the ones he sees when he closes his eyes.

            “You taste so good,” he hisses, the words massaging their lips together, before he kisses Dean. He knows that Dean can taste himself, knows that it’s the greatest thing ever, to share that flavor of his life essence. His hips are moving and so are Dean’s and that’s not just a partial erection beneath him, not anymore, and Dean kisses him, not like a robot, not like a slave, but like Dean, warm and wanting and taking the blood from the inside of his cheeks and his tongue and off his teeth. They’re panting and gasping and Sam doesn’t know what’s going on, doesn’t really care as long as it means that Dean is kissing him. But the taste is going away, drowned by spit, and he leaves the lips, with the quick thought that he’ll return soon, forsaking them for the wonderful taste of Dean’s blood. The spot is pooled again, the time allowing for a gathering cluster of the warm liquid. He slurps at it like a soup. Each lick makes him harder and he feels like he could pound nails with the fucking thing by this point.

            “Dean, Dean, have to be inside you,” he hears himself whimper. His hands are darting around Dean’s chest and his face, fingers pinching the wound, worrying it to make it give more. “Please, have to be inside you.”

            There is blood and there is lust and it isn’t unlike how he felt when Cujo had made him go crazy, except all he can think about is pushing himself as high up inside Dean as he can. His vision is red, like the blood. Obedient, Dean is twisting beneath him, bearing both their weights since Sam isn’t going to stop pressing himself up against the warmth of Dean’s body and the wetness at his neck.

            Slowly, Dean twists around so that his handcuffed hands are beneath him and his ass is against Sam’s grey cotton pants, tented almost as though in caricature of an erection. Sam doesn’t want to leave, not even for an instant, but the lube has never been far away and the pants can be taken off easily on the way to grab it. The elastic in the band snaps as he wrenches the pants to the floor, grabs the lube off the nightstand and gets his hands back on Dean where they belong.

            The bottle spurts out a huge amount of lube and he coats his dick first before touching the tight pucker offered up by the tilt of Dean’s hips. Dean moans as he does, and again when his finger climbs up inside.

            “Please,” he hears Dean beg.

            With the hand not coated in lube, he reaches up, touches the wound, presses into it, delights in the small yelp of pain from Dean. “This is about me, not you,” he growls and the loveliest sound Dean has ever made echoes through the hotel room. It is all want and need and desperation and it almost sounds like he’s dying. Sam’s said the right words, knows them now and commits them to memory.

            Everything, Dean’s asshole and cheeks and Sam’s dick and hand are shiny with the lube, all ready to go and God knows that Sam wants to, but he wants one more taste before he does. “Lean back. I want more.”

            Dean obeys, the movement pulling his round ass away from Sam’s cock as he stands straight up on his knees, but Dean’s tilting his head to the side, offering him the wound and Sam can only mind so much. His mouth returns to it, to the bittersweet metallic taste that keeps Dean alive. It’s flowing slower now, already healing, but the first swallow that drags it down his throat is still as delicious, still as invigorating.

            Then he pushes Dean back down, not even bothering to give him a command, and slides his dick part of the way inside Dean’s ass. It’s better this time, better because Dean’s hard. Sam’s hand is feeling that, a new sensation for his hand, the hardness of someone else’s dick. He slides deeper, enjoys the sounds Dean’s making. Dean’s holding himself up on handcuffed wrists and his neck is bleeding and there is a shine of sweat starting on his skin. Sam’s eyes drink this in as much as his mouth did the blood, uses it to fuel his hips as he thrusts in and out of the tightness and as he grips around Dean’s cock, jerking it in an uncoordinated manner.

            “Fuck, Dean. Fuck, never felt like this…” he pants. “Can’t fucking handle it…” It’s true. He can’t handle it, almost feels like he’s going to black out every time his cock bottoms out. His vision is blurring, the world a swirling red and he can feel the orgasm building in his balls even though he’s only been inside of Dean for a couple of minutes. He would feel sorry for it, but he can’t, loves how he’s feeling and would never stop feeling this way if he could.

            Permission flows from Dean in the form of naughty encouraging words. He comes to Dean’s deep voice saying, “Come inside me, Sammy. I’m yours. I’m all yours. I’m all yours.” He comes and the red is all he can see, the copper all he can taste, the words all he can hear, and the tightness of Dean all he can feel. Then, everything goes black.

           

            Sam isn’t out for long, but is still disoriented as he comes back to consciousness. Dean’s hovering over him, concerned expression and all, and the humiliation starts as soon as the realization hits him that he actually blacked out while fucking Dean. If there is a better time to find a hole to crawl in and die than now, he doesn’t know it.

            “Hey. You… kind of passed out there,” says Dean awkwardly.

            Sam rubs at his forehead which kind of hurts and says, “Shut up.” Sitting up, surprisingly, produces no ill effects like dizziness or blurred vision. Dean’s watching him, passes him a bottled water which he takes sheepishly. The water rinses away the coppery taste, which isn’t much of a loss because the power that the taste had over him has ebbed, tastes just like blood now, not life.

            “Should’ve told me you faint at the sight of blood, Princess.” Dean looks at him slyly and Sam can’t help it, he barks out a laugh. He covers Dean’s face with one of his large hands and pushes the joker away. He was wrong to be so concerned about what the older hunter thought of him after they met, because he now realizes that Dean’s going to like him anyway, going to accept him for the nerdy teenager that he is.

            “Did you…?” he asks, gesturing towards Dean’s flaccid dick.

            “And practice my necrophilia? No thanks,” jokes Dean. Sam’s disappointed because he really thought that this time, Dean would finally come. It’d still be one compared to God knows how many Sam was up to, but at least they’d have a ratio if he did. Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I got the part that I wanted.” Then, in a lower secret-telling voice, he adds, “Told you you’d like it.”

            “Yeah, it seems so,” says Sam. He’s way worried about his reaction to the blood. It was like he was possessed. Dean should be worried too, might be if he knew what Azazel had done to Sam as a baby, if he knew the source of his powers. Sam is up for just writing it off as a fluke, maybe just finding a kink that bears a disturbing resemblance to an incident of childhood trauma. He’s going to try that route, because his only other option is to worry about it constantly or explain to Chal what happened and get her feedback. Yeah, he’s going to just stick with never doing that again and dismissing it as a weird thing.

            “Well, I know you already got your nap in, but I think I’d like to catch a bit of sleep while there’s still a little night left.”

            “Yeah, sleeping is probably a good idea. Um, but we should probably clean up a bit.” There was still the matter of sticky lube everywhere and wound cleaning.

            “Nah, we’ll just sleep in your bed,” says Dean, pulling back the covers and fluffing a pillow.

            Sam shakes his head. He wants to share a bed with Dean like no one’s business but he is not going to leave that cut disinfected, all of his training as a child too ingrained in him to ignore. “No, we clean that wound at least. I mean it.”

            Dean glares at him, but then his eyes soften. “Fine, but I’m cleaning it myself and you’d better not hog any covers while I’m in the bathroom.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sam isn’t too keen on climbing under the covers all gunked up like he is, but he is less keen on turning down Dean’s offer to sleep together, so while Dean heads to the bathroom, he gets underneath the blankets, drinks a bit more water, and waits happily for his kinky teddy bear to return.

           

            The bar, as Dean hoped, is packed. Granted, it’s a lot of douchey Seattleites, but he doubts that Sam will know the difference, figures the kid will be happy just getting his drink on for the first time. Already that big goofy grin is spreading across Sam’s face as he takes in the bustle of bodies, the clinking of bottles, and the din of conversations about inane things that don’t involve the life or death struggles that hunters regularly face. Sam’s dressed up a bit, button up dark blue shirt and jeans, and he looks all of fourteen, except for his monstrous size.

            He leads Sam to the bar and the kid already messes up as he stands right in front of the spot clearly designated for waitresses to pick up orders. He yanks Sam closer to him, adjusting him to the side of the gold-colored rails. He waits for the bartender to start filling a drink close enough to hear him and shouts out, “Two double whiskeys and two IPAs.”       The bartender, busy, spares him a glance and a nod to acknowledge the order. Dean turns to Sam who is looking around the place like a kid in a candy store. “Once we get a shot or two in ya, we’ll see if we can’t find a lady that’s interested in seeing your hotel room!”

            Sam gives him the “You’re the stupidest man in the entire world” look that usually only accompanies conversations about computers or books. “Dean, I like guys.”

            Oh, well, Dean hadn’t really thought about that before. He’s been assuming that Sam is a take it as you can get it type like himself, didn’t actually think that Sam was only into dudes. “Oh, well fine then, some dude that wants to see your hotel room then.”

            Sam’s shaking his head, but he’s also smiling, and yeah, Dean can be a little slow on the uptake, but he gets it now. Sam will take the boys and he’ll take the girls. Strangely, like the last time he came to a bar, Dean’s still not feeling that need to bring someone back with him. He’ll do it for Sammy’s sake, make sure that the kid gets the full drunken bar experience complete with nameless stranger and headache in the morning, but he’s still pretty sated from his morning shower wank and, of course, that crazy intense fuck that Sam had given him three or four nights back. He’d slept like a fucking baby that night, ass sore from Sam’s dick and neck bandage pulling lightly on his skin, making him feel useful and wanted, like treasure. He’d even gone back to sleep after waking up wrapped in stupid sasquatch arms, figured that the kid didn’t have to know that he’d woken up. He could, and did, play it off as weird that they both woke up cuddled up like sweaty kittens.

            So, it’s only for Sam that he starts objectifying all the people in the room, breaking them down by fuckability factors. He isn’t sure what Sam’s type is, has to be different than his own, but asking seems weird. At least he knows that Sam likes them handsome.

            The bartender produces the alcohol and Dean hands Sam his first whiskey. It does him proud to see Sam knock it back, though that definitely wanes a bit when Sam makes a sour “icky” face. Then Sam begins coughing and all the pride leaves the building. “That’s… strong,” Sam manages to say, face red.

            Dean shakes his head. “You’d better hope that none of the good-looking guys in here saw that.”

            “At least one did,” says Sam with a wink.

            It’s too soon for the booze to be making him flirty, so Dean takes the compliment at face value. “Thanks, but I’ve already seen your hotel room.”

            He takes a few mouthfuls of his own whiskey which isn’t bad for well whiskey. Then the twinges of a familiar melody strike his ear. The music playing in the bar isn’t as loud as it would be in a club, low enough to get lost in the voices, and he strains to identify the song. It’s _I Think I’m Paranoid_ by Garbage, a song that he’d been instantly able to identify with. The familiar guitar licks and the alternating cloying and angry Scottish chick’s lyrics combine with the taste of whiskey, make him feel relaxed, almost trance-like. For a second, he’s glad this is just a bar and not a club, because he feels tempted to dance. Sam’s people watching, large fingers curling around his beer bottle. Dean finishes the whiskey, warm pleasant burn down his throat, and eyes watching those fingers, remembering the way they felt wrapped around him and how… no, he can’t let his mind go there. He stops the thinking and opens his mouth, since moving his mouth and thinking seem to be mutually exclusive actions for him.

            “Okay, time for your pickup lessons, Sammy.” He grabs his bottle from the counter and his friend’s elbow and he heads to a section of potential one-night stands. There’s a group of college friends, a mix of boys and girls, and Dean thinks that they’ve hit a smorgasbord between the boy with the bangs that are sticking crisply up with gel and the girl with the earring hoops that almost touch her shoulders. **Buy one, get one free** , he thinks before bumping the guy’s elbow just hard enough to spill a bit of his drink. “Oh, hey,” he says to the startled guy. “Sorry, about that! I am such a klutz! Good thing my friend here is loaded.” He slaps Sam’s shoulder. “Can he buy you a replacement?” Dean asks, hand offering up Sam like door #1 on that old game show.

            The guy, eyeliner smudged in the corner of one eye, looks at Sam and, giving away too much enthusiasm, says, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

            Dean has plenty of time to congratulate himself on his prowess as Sam and the sticky-up bang guy make introductions and travel to the bar. In the meantime, the cluster of females of the group are looking at him, sizing him up. He smiles at them winningly. “Hey, ladies. Sorry, just had to help my brother out a bit. He’s totally hopeless.”

            The blonde laughs the hardest, says in a low-pitched but somehow perky voice, “That’s nice of you!”

            “Why yes, yes it is, but now I should probably be looking for myself, right?” He’s going through the motions. A quick glance at the bar shows him that Sam and Bangs are trying to get the bartender’s attention.

            “Well, you could try one of us,” suggests the redhead. “But, Katie has a boyfriend!”

            Katie is apparently the blonde, because she shoots a look of venom to the redhead who has ratted her out. The meat market is a cutthroat near post-apocalyptic world, a fact Dean’s well-acquainted with. “Mind if I grab a seat, then?” he asks both girls. They nod eagerly and he settles in for a long wait as Sam still hasn’t gotten the bartender to notice his existence let alone made any progress with Bangs.

 

            Gil, the doofus with the stupid eyeliner and nail biting habit, keeps brushing his hand across Sam’s leg every chance he gets. Dean has known Sam for months now, knows that his jokes aren’t that damned funny. Even the girls are rapt by every word that comes out of his nerdy friend’s mouth, as though he’s some kind of Jesus or something. And Sam is eating up all the attention like the teenager he is. Dean’s peeled the label off both his beers.

            “Well, the reason he acts like that is because it always has been just about his sister and him. If his mom or dad took an interest in his life, then he wouldn’t be a, what’d you call him? A twat?”

            They are at a bar drinking booze and picking up chicks (and dudes) and Sam’s talking about books. That shouldn’t even work. Dean regrets selecting the group of college kids, frickin’ know-it-alls.

            Gil is nodding and stroking Sam’s leg and Dean kind of feels like punching him. “But look at how even your remedy for his personality is buying into the social norm. ‘A two-parent household could have raised him to be compliant,’ is basically what you’re saying. What’s wrong with the way that Holden turned out?”

            “Well, he’s unhappy, for starters.”

            “Unhappiness can be essential for character growth,” says the stupidly educated doofus. Sadly, Sam seems to consider the guy’s point, as though he isn’t just talking out of his ass.

            Dean needs a break from this intellectual crap. He stands up and Sam’s eyes immediately focus on him. “Just gonna hit the head,” he offers.

            Surprisingly, for how busy the place is, he actually gets a few moments alone in the bathroom. He sizes himself up in the mirror, plucks a stray eyelash from his cheek. He looks pissed and a bit bored. There’s a tear in the corner of his lip from dry skin. He can barely see the scar under his chin in the weird lighting. Then someone comes into the bathroom, and he washes his hands, more for something to do than that he actually needs to.

            When he returns, the girls are nowhere in sight and Gil is making his move on Sammy. His lips are next to Sam’s big ear and his hand is on one slim arm. Dean waits, feet away, to see what Sam’s call is gonna be. He’s bagged the guy, but Dean’s kind of hoping that Sam has noticed that he’s kind of a loser and won’t want to follow through. Sam laughs and Gil laughs and Dean figures he’s awkwardly saying yes, gets confirmation when they both stand up to leave. Sam sees him standing there, creepily observing, but he smiles, dimples dimpling and Dean doesn’t want to see him go back to the hotel with Gil.

            “Hey Dean, ready to go?” he asks.

            If Sam wants a threesome, he can just count Dean out, because he’d rather bite Gil’s dick than suck it. But, Gil isn’t putting on his coat like Sam is. Instead, he’s offering up a hand. “Nice to meet you, Dean.” Dean shakes the hand, numbly, and then Gil is gone, drifting over to the bar and Sam is right there, tall and skinny and young and free of eye-lined college kid.

            “Um, aren’t you taking him back to the hotel?” he asks.

            Sam laughs. “Nope, I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

            Dean frowns. “You’re not drunk and you’re not bagging a bar skank? Sammy, this is not how the first trip to the bar goes.”

            But, Sam places one of his large catcher mitt hands on his chest and he’s looking evenly at Dean, certainty and confidence illuminating his eyes. “We’re going back to the hotel, Dean.”

            Dean doesn’t get it, but he hasn’t been having fun anyway, and waiting around another couple hours (or minutes if Sammy’s past stamina has been any indicator)for Sam to finish fucking someone doesn’t sound like an improvement, so, he shrugs and leads the way back to the hotel. They’d opted to walk, since Dean didn’t know if he’d be getting trashed too, but it doesn’t stop him from looking around at the street parking for Baby, such an ever-present piece of his life.

            Summer Nights in the city feel like when a hotel room hasn’t opened its windows in too long, chemicals and trapped air. Sam’s steps align with his own as they head back to the hotel.

            “So,” starts Dean. “You know a lot about that literature stuff, huh?”

            “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I mostly read sci-fi and fantasy but I like the classics too. It’s cool reading them and trying to figure out what it is about them that’s made them last over time.”

            “I read _To Kill a Mockingbird_ for school. It wasn’t bad. I liked the little tomboy. She wasn’t afraid of this creepy guy that lived in her town.” Dean laughs. “Of course, I kept expecting him to turn out to be a vengeful spirit…”

            Sam laughs too. “That would have been pretty cool.”

            “Right? Then the little girl could do a salt and burn and save the town while her dad saved the town from racism.”

            “Ha!” says Sam, enjoying the conversation. It pleases Dean that he can make observations about literature too. **Take that Gil** , thinks Dean in a smarmy voice. “Too bad you haven’t read _Catcher in the Rye_. I’d like to hear you turn that into a horror novel.”

            “It sounded like a book about a prick. We got enough of those in real life.”

            Seattle streets are always a little wet, even in the summer. Dean isn’t sure how since it hasn’t rained since they’ve been there, but he has to hop over a puddle collecting over a blocked up grate. Car horns echo off of the taller buildings. They’re not far now from the hotel.

            “You disappointed about how tonight went?” Dean asks.

            Sam looks surprised. “No, no. I had a great time.”

            “But you’re sober.”

            Sam shrugs. “I think I was a bit buzzed for a while, til the whiskey wore off.”

            “I was supposed to make sure you were black-out drunk tonight. Wanted you to be praying to the porcelain god in the morning.”

            “Gee, thanks. Were you also hoping to shoot me in the leg?”

            Dean can’t help but laugh. “It’s not like that. It’s just that, everyone’s first bar experience is supposed to go a certain way.” He pulls out the keycard from his wallet, eyes scanning the parking lot for verification of Baby’s safety and then the area around their hotel room, checking for suspicious characters or dark shadows. Everything in order, he presses the card into the slot and permits them entrance into the illustrious Days Inn, their castle of the past few weeks. The lighting, once Sam flips the switch, is much friendlier on Sam’s face than the weird bar lighting and they’ve been in the one room long enough that its scent and feel have become familiar, an approximation of home.

“And that involves getting puke drunk and catching VD from a one-night stand,” says Sam while Dean double-checks the salt lines.

            “Hey, the VD is optional!” says Dean raising his palms to disavow any ownership of having said otherwise.

            Sam sits on Dean’s bed, unlaces his boots. Since it’s not a bad idea, Dean follows suit.

“Seriously though,” Dean says. “You could have bagged that guy back there. I wouldn’t have minded waiting.”

            Sam shakes his head, begins unbuttoning his shirt. “You can’t really be this dense.”

            If the opinions of others can be trusted, then, yes, Dean really can be that dense, though he doesn’t know what it is he’s missing. “What?” he snarls, annoyed that again his intelligence is being questioned and right after he’d made those great comments about _To Kill a Mockingbird_ too.

            “I didn’t want to bag that guy back there.” He’s finished unbuttoning the shirt and it falls open as a leans towards Dean. “Wanted to bag the guy right here.”

            “Oh,” says Dean. And sure, he’s better looking than Gil and way less obnoxious, but still… “Yeah, but... I mean, you’ve already done that. This was about trying something new.”

            “Okay, let’s,” suggests Sam, a crazy hot edge to his voice. His eyes are on Dean’s lips and Dean has plenty of time to avoid the kiss he can tell is coming, but he doesn’t feel like ducking away and that’s not even the first time he’s felt that way with Sam, because despite how much Dean claims, in his head or aloud, that he doesn’t like kissing, what they’d done the night that Sam had cut him open and sucked the blood right from him had been awesome, like no kissing he’d ever participated in. It had felt exposed which usually makes Dean want to run, but that time had made him feel accepted and it had been so hot that even his wang had gotten the hint that something was going on. Even if it was a fluke, the erection, and the ensuing almost orgasm, Dean kinda wants to do it again.

            Sam’s lips are thin in the corners, skin barely even pink where his smile ends, and even in the center, they aren’t full like Dean’s. They touch against his as soft as he’s ever been kissed, like the memory of a kiss rather than the real thing. It shouldn’t make his heart beat faster, this infinitely gentle touch, but it does because it’s different, because it’s new and suddenly he’s scared that he knows what Sam is suggesting they try.

            “Sam,” he whispers against the patient lips. “I can’t…”

            There’s a hand on his cheek, Sam’s hand, and a long wide thumb caressing the skin just above his beard scruff. From the closeness of their faces, he can’t focus on Sam’s eyes, but he knows they’re looking straight at his anyway. “Shhh. Dean, you’re mine, remember?”

            His stomach swirls, because no one has ever said that in a non-sexual way and he’s pretty fucking sure that’s how Sam means it now. It’s scarier than any vampire, than any demon, to have Sam this close, touching him so gently. He tries to pull back, but then the soft hand strongly tugs his jaw, keeps it forward. There is no anger behind the movement, no cruelty, just an emotion Dean can’t identify because he’s never had it. “And I didn’t say it that night, but it goes both ways.” Again the near-queasy feeling below his ribs and Dean clenches his hands and unclenches them, is pretty sure they’re going numb for some reason. “I’m yours too, Dean.”

            **Oh hell no _,_** his mind yells and this time he does pull back, freakin’ stands up, nearly trips over his boots in an attempt to get away from Sam and the romantic words. But where is he going to go? He’s standing between the two hotel beds, made up neatly by housekeeping, and Sam is sitting there looking at him as calmly as though Dean isn’t freaking out, isn’t about to dart out the door, get into the Impala, and just leave Sam’s ass in this shitty chain motel until his mom can come and get him.

            Things that he could say race through his mind, but none of them fit, none of them seem manly enough (“I’m too scared!”) or kind enough (“I’m not your goddamned boyfriend!”) or sensible enough (“Making love is gay!”) to say. Instead, he’s just standing there, letting his probably bugged out eyes convey to Sam just how uncomfortable he is with this situation. Sleeping together has been bad enough, (which they’ve done every night since the vamp massacre) but holding each other while awake is a whole level of intimacy that Dean can’t handle.

            Sam reaches underneath him, pulls at the bedspread, yanks so that the pillows are revealed and enough of the sheets for him to crawl under, which he does, shimmying his long jean-clad legs underneath. His shirt bunches around his nipples and armpits and he pulls his shirt down. His movements are slow, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal, but there’s also no hesitancy to them. For once, his little Sammy seems completely comfortable initiating what he’s trying to initiate. Warm hazel eyes look up at him. “Lay down, Dean.”

            He’s acting like an idiot, knows that he is. The reason that Sam’s treating him like a baby is because he’s acting like one. He’s also not used to disobeying an order to get into bed. These are two of the many reasons that he gets into bed and ignores the many reasons he shouldn’t. Once at Sam’s side, he braces himself, ready for anything, hoping to be ravaged, scared to be held. It seems that the latter is what’s happening because instantly, Sam’s upper body is over him and he’s staring up at fresh teenage face dotted with small zits.

            “What was the first thing you ever hunted?” asks Sam.

            His brain attempts to shift gears. Sam’s asking him about hunting now? Strangely, he answers. “Simple salt and burn, some dead woman who was hurting her grandchildren.” It was the safest thing his dad could find to ease him into the family business. His dad had pretended to be an antique dealer, had brought Dean along to see show him how to act when in disguise. Then, Dad and him, though it was mostly dad, had dug up the woman’s grave. The actual burning of the bones was an initiation given solely to Dean and the moment he’d flicked the lighter, he’d claimed the title of hunter proudly. “She’d done that Baron Von Munchausen thing with her kids and wanted to keep up the legacy, I guess.”

            Sam leans down and kisses his forehead and each of his cheeks. “Were you scared?”

            “Not that time. It was an easy case.”

            “Still,” says Sam, returning back to just looking at him. “Seeing an old lady’s skeleton had to be scary to a kid.”

            Dean tries to remember if he was afraid, but he really doesn’t think that he was. “I think I was just happy to finally be able to help Dad.”

            Sam smiles. “I get that. The first time Chal got sick, I was freaking out. She had a fever and couldn’t keep anything down. So, I kept making soup and bringing her Gatorade. Even though at the time I felt pretty useless, she said I was the best doctor she’d ever had. I think it would have been a lot harder for her to face alone.”

            Dean nods. This isn’t so bad, what they’re doing; he’s enjoying the heat from Sam’s body and the scent of his warm breath when he speaks.

            “Okay, you can have a jam session with any guitarist, dead or alive.”

            “Jimi.”

            “Page or Hendrix?” asks Sam.

            “Both,” Dean replies happily. “But I meant Hendrix.”

            This time Sam kisses his neck, licks a little.

            “I see what you’re doing, Sam.”

            “Of course you do,” comes the reply from under his chin. When Sam rises again he’s smiling. “It’s obvious.”

            “It’s a stupid thing to be afraid of,” he says vaguely, afraid to define what “it” is, but he knows that Sam will follow anyway.

            Sam shakes his head. “No, it isn’t stupid. But it also isn’t something you can run away from forever.”

            “Why not? I’ve been doing a damn good job so far.” He has too, always leaving before they get attached, before they can realize that he doesn’t attach, choosing men that are dominant and a bit scary, ones that are more eager to use him than to love him.

            Dean reaches up and swipes the long bangs behind Sam’s ear.

            “Because it doesn’t make you happy,” says Sam softly.

            “Oh crap, is this going to turn into another _Catcher in the Rye_ conversation, because that went on too long already!”

            Sam laughs. “You were actually listening!?”

            “Wish I hadn’t. Nearly put me to sleep.” He enjoys the sound of Sam’s laughter and the way his mouth gets so large when he does. “So, you think you can make me happy, Sammy?”

            Several serious seconds pass as Sam thinks. His thumb is back to rubbing Dean’s cheek, absent-mindedly now though. “Probably not,” he finally says and Dean wasn’t expecting that level of pessimism (or maybe realism) from Sam. “I think you’d have to be the one that makes you happy.” Oh, that sounds more like Sam, hippy self-help book crap. He’s about to point out exactly how stupid that sounds when Sam says, “But, I think I could love you if you’d let me.”

            The lump in his throat is bigger than Sam’s Adam’s apple and his mouth goes dry when he tries to swallow it down. He’s had people say they loved him, men and women who got confused by orgasms into thinking they knew him, that they cared, but this is Sam and Sam really does know him. They’ve laughed together and hunted together, hell, he’s even told Sam about his mom.

            “Oh, stop looking so fucking skeptical. You’re awesome man, and you know it. Hell, you know it better than the rest of us!” Sam’s grinning deviously, making light of the overwhelming crush on his chest that has nothing to do with Sam’s place on it and everything to do with Sam’s place in it.

            Dean doesn’t want to joke about this. Maybe because Sam is right and all the one-night stands aren’t making him happy. Being fucked hard while rough hands grab his throat has never made him feel half as good as Sam kissing him, touching him, and if he’s really honest with himself, saying what he just did, that he could love Dean, that someone that he respects could love him.

            He closes his eyes, lets the emotions run wild through his body and lets himself feel them, the fear, the dread, the happiness, the comfort, the self-loathing, the need. They are as much a part of him as the lungs he feels expand with air and the skin of his chest warm beneath Sam’s weight and the bristles of chin hair that Sam’s stupid thumb is still playing with. He can’t do this alone. He can’t break through the walls that he’s constructed, feels too lost in them, too buried beneath how high they’re stacked. “I need help, Sammy.”

            The next kiss is the sweetest. He doesn’t see it coming, and not just because his eyes are closed, and barely feels it begin. It’s almost as if they always have been kissing, their lips pressed loosely to each other’s, only slightly moving, shifting with breath. It’s Dean that spreads his lips a bit wider, feels the wetness of Sam’s mouth, the gentle suction. His eyes open and he sees that Sam’s are closed, lashes dark against his cheek. He pulls back a bit, just a bit, so that their lips are grazing against each other because he needs to swallow and needs to breathe. He does these things, swallowing down the saliva that it feels like he’s producing in staring-at-pie amounts and breathing at least three good strong inhales before moving back. He can feel the teeth behind Sam’s lips, the pearly grin’s domicile when not in use. He opens his mouth again but this time he flicks out his tongue, licks the loose bit of dead skin that’s always present on Sam’s upper lip, the part right in the center that hangs down like a tiny stalactite. Then he licks at Sam’s bottom lip. It tastes like beer and Sam.

            For his part, Sam is still, not dead fish still, but patient still as Dean uses his tongue to feel textures he hasn’t been able to acquaint himself with. Sam’s lips are soft, even without the padding his own have. The corners of his mouth have sharp edges, the parts that curl up the highest when he smiles. Sam’s tongue is smooth, feels large, though he guesses most of Sam’s body is larger than his own. He stabs the tip of his own to Sam’s, feels the small dip in the front that he’s noticed when Sam is being childish and sticking it out at him. Dean pulls back again, sucking in spit, and Sam’s eyes open.

            They watch each other for several of Dean’s loud heartbeats. Then Sam scoots on top of him, thighs wrapping around his hips, large upper torso bending down, offering his lips but not initiating anything. Dean kisses him, open-mouthed and deep, and their tongues meet up in the neutral ground of the kiss, sliding against each other, curling like ivy. His hands come up and, for the first time, touch Sam’s cheek. Beneath his fingers he can feel the muscles of Sam’s mouth as his tongue swirls around their mouths. It’s erotic, feeling it from the outside as well as the inside. He moves his hand lower just so that he can feel it from beneath Sam’s chin as well. It’s almost as though this is the first kiss he’s ever had, because he’s never noticed these things before, never felt the muscles at play, never put this much thought into what each movement of lip and tongue feels like.

            Sam nips his lower lip and Dean gasps, sensation feeling pornographic despite its strictly above-the-neckline location. Sam smiles and Dean’s lips kiss teeth. “Love your lips,” Sam says between kisses.

            “Dick sucking lips,” agrees Dean, he’s heard it too many times not to think of them that way.

            Sam shakes his head. “Sam kissing lips.”

            Their kissing stops as Dean has a minor laughing fit at the cheesy line. “You’re so lame,” he wheezes.

            It doesn’t seem that Sam minds being called lame, because his tongue is moving over Dean’s neck in long flat strokes. “It’s almost healed,” says Sam after discovering the ridge of the wound he’d made.

            “Fast healer. Oh!” Sam’s biting now, below the wound, above his collarbone. It catches him off-guard, warms his body. It’s not a hard bite, could definitely be harder, but it catches the nerve endings more than a simple touch. Dean likes it. “More.”

            Sam nibbles little bites along the front of his neck and when he gets to the opposite side, he bites Dean above his collarbone there.

“What else do you like?” asks Sam once his lips are again against his.

            Dean answers honestly. “I don’t know.”

            They kiss and it’s starting to feel normal, pleasantly expected, at least until Sam’s hands are on his face holding him gently, playing with the lobes of his ears, and Dean feels himself melt a little beneath the caresses. He isn’t sure when he became such a girl, but it’s hard to worry about when Sam tongue is doing circles in his mouth and holding him like he’s made of sugar. It’s a high, this feeling, this having someone care, and yeah, he’s still a little afraid but mostly he just feels warm.

            They kiss forever.

            The thing is that no matter how long they kiss, Sam isn’t making a move to do anything else, and Dean’s starting to be not okay with that. He wants more, just isn’t sure how to ask for it, and isn’t even sure what he wants Sam to do. His hands fiddle with the buttons at the bottom of Sam’s shirt, extras in case the others get loose, but they’re only occasionally bumping the skin beneath. “Sammy,” he whispers.

            Sam’s thumb nudges his already tender bottom lip, arousal in his eyes and attention bright. “Yeah?”

            “Do something. Tell me to do something.” He wants this to go further, but isn’t used to guiding it anywhere but with his partner’s orgasm. If what they’re aiming for is something mutual, then he has no frickin’ idea how to proceed.

            The shaking of Sam’s head brushes his hair across his face, tickles his nose. “Dean, just do what feels right.”

            “Kissing feels right.”

            “We could do that all night,” suggests Sam, hopeful voice making Dean feel guilty for being such a chick.

            “A little late to worry about losing my virginity, Sammy.” He eats Sam’s anticipated smile when it appears, gobbles it with lips and the pressure of his mouth.

            The jokes blend so well with the sex; he’s never had the chance before to see that, never known his partner well enough to try. He wants to maintain this playfulness forever, wants to laugh with the person that he makes moan. Seizing a spontaneous urge, he pushes back on Sam’s chest and raises himself up, flipping the younger boy onto his back. Sam lets out an “Ack!” as Dean turns the tables, maneuvering his own thighs outside Sam’s and hovering over the handsome dimpled face beneath him. He laughs. “King of the mountain.”

            Sam laughs too. “Does this mean that I have to start calling _you_ Master?”

            Dean is instantly incredibly uncomfortable with the role-reversal. “Don’t do that, the sub thing. Just be you, okay kiddo?”

            Sam nods. “I will if you will. And, if you kiss me again.”

            That’s a compromise that Dean is totally willing to make. He swoops down, enjoys the way Sam’s out of breath but still pressed up against him like he could potentially breathe the air from Dean’s lungs. He enjoys the feel of Sam’s hands rubbing at his shoulders, pulling him in close, and the slight sting of nails that he can feel even through his shirt. All the years of reluctant kissing that he’s done and now he doesn’t even want to stop so that he can take his shirt off, wants to keep tasting any lingering beer in the space between teeth and cheek, but the desire to have those large hands against his bare skin sounds worth the brief intermission. He pulls his lips from Sam’s and yanks his shirt up. Through the veil of cotton fabric, he sees Sam moving towards his nipple.

            Strange how his temperature goes up, not down, with his shirt off, because of the sensation of Sam licking at his nipple, the cold air and spit making it stand upright. It almost tickles. Then Sam’s sucking the nipple into his mouth, letting his teeth brush over it, and Dean rises up into him. Sam looks up at him happily.

            “You got nice teeth, Sammy.”

            One of Sam’s hands pinches on the nipple not in his mouth. “You’re brave,” whispers Sam. His tongue travels to join his fingers on the other nipple, wetting it, making it harden further.

            “Why? How hard you planning on biting me?”

            Sammy’s diving into his neck, motion the same as a few nights ago but intent completely different, loving and kind, and speed slow and patient. Sam sucks, but gently, and Dean wonders if he’ll have more bruising; the marks around the knife wound had looked less like hickeys and more like the time his leg had found a bear trap in Wyoming.

            “Okay, no Vampire Sam tonight,” says Dean, shrugging his head close to his shoulders to bump Sam’s mouth off.

            Sam smiles. “Hadn’t crossed my mind.”

            “Yeah, sure. How would you like it if I left a big old hickey on your neck?”

            Sam growls. “I’d fucking love it.”

            Dean does a double take, studies Sam’s lusty honest eyes, and says, “You serious?”

            As an answer, Sam leans his head back. His Adam’s apple presses forward, thinning the skin of his neck. Okay, now that’s kind of cool. He lowers his mouth to the human Pez dispenser beneath him, taking a quick lick first, scouting the area. Sam whines and his hips wiggle a bit, creating friction between their crotches. “Damn, Sammy, calm your tits.”

            A snort of disapproval comes from Sam’s nose, probably as much due to wording as anything else, but it still pleases Dean. Christ, he hadn’t even realized that he could also annoy Sammy while fucking him. Best of both worlds is an understatement.

            He drags out picking the spot, enjoying Sam’s impatience before finally placing his open mouth. He suckles softly, licks at the red mark, slides his teeth on the flesh. Sam’s getting all wriggly beneath him and it’s kind of neat, driving Sam all crazy like this. He wipes the saliva off with the back of his hand. “There you go, now everyone will know that you’re a slut.”

            “For you,” says Sam, hand reaching out to pull Dean in for a kiss. “Besides, yours is bigger.”

            “That’s cause I’m a bigger slut,” jokes Dean.

            Sam shakes his head. “You’re a good hunter,” says Sam, pauses and adds, “And a good man.”

            He lets the skepticism ride his face like a fat chick, but whether he believes the words or not, they feel good, like Sam’s hands, but on the inside. Instead of arguing, he works the other side of Sam’s neck. That side also makes Sam’s hips grind up, bumping into the space behind his balls, pushing them up, and jeans are not his friends at the moment; they constrict essential blood flow areas, not to mention they’re keeping him from feeling Sam’s cock as it was meant to be felt.

            “Hold on a sec,” Dean says. While he climbs off the bed and removes his jeans, Sam does the same, but in more of a snake shedding his skin way. Sam’s dick bounces upward and Dean swears the damn thing looks relieved. It’s got a purple hue to it and it’s wet like Sammy gets when Dean’s got his tongue on his balls. As far as dicks go, Sam’s got one of the nicest he’s ever seen.

            His jeans shed, Dean climbs onto the bed, licks the precome off the round head of Sam’s cock. It jerks happily under his tongue. “Dean,” calls Sam, getting his attention. “Do what _you_ want okay? Not what you think I want.”

            Dean laughs. “Oh trust me, kid, I was. If my lips were made for sucking cock, then your cock was definitely made to be sucked.”

            Sam pinks with proud embarrassment. Still, he opens his arms, and gestures for Dean, “Please kiss me again?”

            “Such a needy bitch,” teases Dean. He doesn’t mean it, definitely wants to return to warm welcoming mouth. He does give a goodbye lick, or maybe it’s a ‘be back in a second’ lick, before he maneuvers himself above Sam.

            Their cocks align when he lowers himself onto Sam’s thinner, but still strong frame. He stifles the groan this leads Sam to make with his lips, and as they kiss, he shifts a bit, rubbing himself along Sam’s pelvis. The friction and the heat are incredible. Dean just feels so aware of everything, of how the hairs on their legs lock together like Velcro and how every time he bites Sam’s lip, he feels fingers tighten on his back or his shoulders. He grinds harder on Sam, makes him whimper, makes himself groan.

            It’s never felt like this, mostly because he’s never felt in control during sex, never wanted to be in control, but also because he knows Sam, knows that the only time Sam sits still is when he’s listening to someone speak and that the rest of the time he’s fiddling with his damn hair or shaking his foot. He knows that Sam doesn’t tell Chal that he loves her only because she doesn’t say it to him. He also knows that Sam prefers blowjobs in the morning rather than night and that when he comes, he’s much more likely to call Dean’s name than God’s. There are lots of things he knows about Sam and that’s new.

            “Sammy,” he whispers, because he wants to and Sam looks at him with such deep affection that it feels like he’s losing bits of himself, like they’re being assimilated into whatever this bond is between them.

            When Sam moves out from under him, Dean thinks he’s done something wrong. For moments he panics, wondering how he can get things back to how they were, but Sam’s just reaching for the bottle of lube on the small nightstand between the beds. With his long arms, the brat actually makes it, even with the distance, manages to reach it while still keeping his dick against Dean’s hip. He pops the cap and kisses Dean while pouring some onto his hand.

            Then the wet hand is between them, gathering up both cocks, and rubbing, everything slick and alert and wonderful. “Fuck,” says Dean. He rests his forehead against Sam’s and just feels. He has to hoist himself up a bit to allow Sam’s hand room for movement, isn’t pressed as tightly as he wants to be, but what Sam’s doing feels fan-fucking-tastic. Sam must think so too, because he’s making noises, those lovely whimpers that he makes when he’s balls deep inside Dean’s mouth or ass, like he can’t handle the sensations. Dean has never been so hard before, not even when he’s alone. His cock feels like iron against Sam’s. A shudder starts from the tips of his toes up the length of his spine. “Fuck, Sammy, your hand.” God bless the kid’s giant mitts, because he’s stroking them both like a pro and Dean feels held and safe there even while he feels the building of an orgasm, that angry wave of nerve eruption looming on the horizon. He doesn’t want to try to come because he doesn’t want to jinx it, doesn’t want his dick to crap out and go limp under the pressure. He feels a drop of sweat transfer from his forehead to Sam’s.

            Dean’s hips buck up into Sam’s already quick hand, creating twice as much pressure on his cock, twice as many sensations. He’s fucking against both cock and hand. He licks the sweat from Sam’s forehead. Sam gasps. The universe condenses to area of their genitals, everything outside of shaft and head and balls, hips and thighs doesn’t exist. Dean trembles, afraid to hope that he’s actually going to come and feeling overwhelmingly close. He dangles on the edge. He can smell Sam’s girly ass shampoo, feel the heat from his red cheeks, taste the sweat that he’d lapped up.

            “Dean!” Sam cries out, fist pumping furiously. The increased speed and force provide enough momentum, but that’s not all the motivation Sam supplies for Dean’s orgasm. There’s also the arching body beneath him, the feel of warm hot liquid shooting between them as Sam comes like a porn star, the nails of Sam’s unoccupied hand digging, gripping with all their might into the round flesh of Dean’s ass, and finally, there are the words. Dean almost thinks he could come just from the words alone, worlds unreachable to him that Sam brings in close, hands to him on a platter. “Love you!” gasps Sam, words almost not words because there is only so much air in Sam’s lungs.  

            Tears spring to his eyes, part sting of the intensity with which the orgasm hits and part emotions, raw and bare. Dean yells as he comes, no words, just a yell, and Sam’s hand works determinedly, squeezing the last drop from him as he does. His hips jerk up and down, the motion of fucking, but in a spasmodic way and he’s come so hard that his ass is cramping.

            Slowly, Sam eases off on the strokes until he’s just holding Dean’s cock, and Dean stops humping at the hand, instead lying on it, pressing it painfully between them. They pant and breathe, him against Sam’s chin. Sam covers the top of his head in kisses. Whispering between each one, tiny little love you’s. There’s no reason for it, well, other than his brain-dead state, but Dean starts to chuckle. Sam pushes at his chest. “You’re heavy.”

            “And sexy,” jokes Dean.

            “Not while you’re crushing my junk, Dude. Get off.”

            He allows Sammy to bully him into rolling over. There, on his back, the giggles return.

            “Coming makes you dumb,” comments Sam.

            “You’re dumb.”

            Sam laughs. “Great comeback.”

            Dean closes his eyes, exhales deeply and says, “I know you are but what am I,” then proceeds to drift off, not to sleep but definitely to a lower level of consciousness. In the orgasm-induced haze, he notices that Sam goes to shower and returns, but somehow misses the time in between.


	10. Revelations

            Dean’s fingers play across Sam’s nipples, the tips hopping like tiny pinkish frogs. There is no intent there, just daydreaming translating as motion. Sam sighs. “So, this one time, Chal and I broke into this high-end storage place, like where they keep thousand dollar bottles of wine and stuff. There’s gonna be an auction the next day selling off this hexed mask, and we have to, like, wade through all these antiques with lot numbers to find the right one. It turned out that there were a lot of fetishes, not just the thing we were looking for, possessed doll, shrunken head carved up with runes, stuff like that. Our EMFs were going crazy. Turns out, they were selling off a dead hunter’s estate.”

            Dean grunts. “Hard to hide shit like that when you’re dead.”

            “Yeah.”

            The hotel room smells like sex and pizza, delicious and decadent. Sam wonders how long he could live like this, sitting in the Impala all day, sucking down to-go food all night, before he got fat. It’d probably be a while, since Dean is still fit, six-pack ab muscles still defined. They’re great for licking, especially for the way they flex as Dean tries to hide his ticklishness       , breath catching and lips locked close so as to not let out a peep. Sam wants to learn all his tells, wants to know all the things Dean’s lips will never say. The weaknesses that he tries so hard to hide are as wonderfully Dean as his surface attributes, only adds more things for Sam to love.

            And Sam does love Dean. He knows that now. He loves his strength and compassion, his taste in retro music and lame jokes, the way he shuts his eyes so tightly that his forehead wrinkles when Sam goes down on him and the even lengths of his sideburn trim. Loving Dean is as inescapable as passing time. It’s just part of who he is.

            “That’s why Dad’s got back-ups in place on his storage units. Hell, even I only know one of them.” Sam can hear Dean smile, even though his eyes are closed. “And I think he only told me cause it’s in Florida and he knows I won’t go there unless it really is an emergency.”

            Dean’s phone rings. They both look at the clock. It’s four in the morning, too early to be anyone other than a fellow hunter. Hell, even hunters should be asleep by four, but then, not all hunters start epic lovemaking sessions after Letterman.

            “Speak of the devil,” says Dean, extracting himself from the blankets and Sam, one and the same for tentacle similarity.

            “Tell him that I’m too fat from pizza to move.”

            “Yeah?” Dean asks the phone as he flips it open.

            Sam pulls a pillow over his head. They really should have slept if they’ve got a case. He can only regret the lack of sleep so much; he’ll always prefer making Dean shake and shiver, making him breathless and rosy-cheeked, to a full night’s rest.

            The conversation between father and son is short and Dean’s side consists of lots of “yeah”s and “I understand”s. Sam groans, knowing that Dean’s going to make him get out of bed soon. He stretches out his arm under Dean’s pillow, finds a Starburst wrapper. He would think it was gross if he didn’t find it so fucking adorably Dean. He grabs it between his fingers, pulls it close to his nose, and sniffs. He can’t tell by smell which color it had been.

            Abruptly, there is a Winchester atop him, weight pushing obnoxiously into the pillow and blankets, smothering him. “Sammy! We’ve got a demon to hunt!”

            Sam struggles to get out from under the linens and the hot guy and, surfacing, gasps for the fresh air. “Ugh, get off me, Jerk!”

            Dean’s got the shine of excitement to his eyes. “A demon hunt, Sammy. What if this is the one?”

            Sam gives a half-smile. “Then, it’ll be good that it’s my specialty.” He wants to be enthusiastic, because he really desperately wants to help the Winchesters get some closure, finalize their revenge, but this is going to mean trying to sleep with his head pressed against vibrating window glass.

            “Well… one of your specialties,” flirts Dean. He kisses Sam, mouth still in a partial smile. Their teeth clack together and they both curse, fingers instinctively feeling at the pain in their mouths.

            “Dumbass,” ribs Sam. “Your breath friggin’ reeks anyway.”

            “Blame your jizz for that.” He jumps up from the bed, walks to the bathroom, sidestepping like a ninja the pillow thrown at his head. He does a cocky dance to celebrate his agility before usurping the shower. Sam shakes his head. **Dumbass** , he thinks fondly before snuggling back against the pillow. Dean’ll wake him up when it’s time to go.

           

            “I’m glad I’ve never lived here,” says Sam looking out at the shining buildings on the desert horizon. He’s got his legs pulled up Indian-style beneath him and _Fahrenheit 451_ tucked into the space formed between his ankles and crotch. He’d found it impossible to pay attention to the book today, too excited about going after a demon, possibly helping Dean find the one that killed his mom.

            “Why? Thought you were a lizard for heat like this?”

            Sam shakes his head. “It’s not the heat; it’s the people.”

            Dean laughs. “Yeah, they’re pretty messed up out here, huh? One time I saw these two old ladies beat the crap out of each other over a slot machine.”

            Sam’s been to Las Vegas once and it had made him feel dirty, like he needed to wash the greed and desperation off. Even though there’s plenty of demon prey to hunt here, deals just begging to be made, Chal never pushed him to move closer, understood that he couldn’t take the atmosphere. “I think it has to do with my powers, a bit. Like I’m sensitive to just being around people who act like demons.”

            Dean’s hand rubs at the nape of his neck. “That’s my sensitive Sammy. You know, I hear he cries during sex.”

            That Sam doesn’t correct Dean about which of the two of them have shed tears in bed, shows tremendous restraint, or maybe just the intensity of his desire to keep having bedroom moments at all, because if he was to actually say something, there’s a good chance those opportunities would stop. “Well yeah, with how bad his boyfriend is in bed…”

            The hand stops. Sam senses immediately that he misspoke. He’s never said it out loud, though he’s thought it roughly 6 million times since the summer started. “Boyfriend?” asks Dean.

            “Beats violent moron?” jokes Sam weakly.

            After several seconds and one held breath, Dean replies, “If I’m the boyfriend, does that make you the girlfriend?”

            Sam laughs, Dean’s joke pouring relief over his tense nerves. “See? Moron.”

              

            Sam merely rolls his eyes when the casino wench, as Dean refers to her and others of her ilk, offers Dean a drink. She’s all curves and cosmetics, a perfect fit in the décor of feigned opulence. He can’t be jealous of the way that Dean calls her “honey” or the way she flips her long blond hair because none of it is real, none of it means anything. Dean isn’t going to fall in love with her and whisk her off to a four-bedroom house in the suburbs. It’s like when he’d threaded the rope around Dean’s wrists, merely a show.

            The drink, a clear liquid that Sam doesn’t have enough experience to identify, is small, just a mouthful for Dean. He makes a face after swallowing. “Get what you pay for,” he says, tapping Sam’s chest with the back of his hand. Sam looks at him, hoping to display his disdain fully.

            “Think we got time for some poker?” asks Dean. “I’ve got a one hundred we could get cashed in for chips.”

            “I probably shouldn’t play,” says Sam, scooting close to Dean’s ear before he speaks, not wanting others to hear. The woman hadn’t offered him a drink and he’s worrying now that the reason is because he’s so very obviously not 21, 6’2” or not. Sam stands out like Darth Vader in a _Where’s Waldo_ puzzle. A quick glance at his appearance in one of the hundreds of mirrors that adorn the slot machine section only raises his concern about pulling this off because not only does he look his sixteen years, but he’s also massively uncomfortable, like he’s trying to be inconspicuous. “The waitress didn’t think I was 21.”

            Dean’s pupils are wider than they should be in the glitzy lighting; the realization that Dean actually likes this place, that he’s feeding off the shallow, greedy atmosphere instead of being repulsed, disappoints Sam. He thinks his boyfriend is better than this.

            “You can be my good luck charm.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Blow on my dice, maybe?”

            “Thought you wanted to play poker,” says Sam, determined not to encourage him.

            “Fine then, I can blow on your dice.” He plants a kiss right on Sam’s neck, right there in the middle of the casino. Sam can feel Dean’s lips as he whispers, “You’ve never gotten sucked off in the men’s room before…”

            “Insatiable dickbag,” mumbles Sam, pushing the older boy away because he’s blushing so furiously that he’s pretty sure he must resemble a stop light. “Try and focus a little!”

            His embarrassment pleases Dean as much as it always does and Sam glares at the happy smile that is plastered across Dean’s face. “Right, we’ve got an appointment soon.” He checks his watch. “So, how do you want to kill an hour and a half then?”

            There’s lot of things they still need to do. They need to case the meetup location, find a place they can take the demon for interrogation (this part will be tricky under the watchful eye of Las Vegas security which is said to rival the government in its Big Brother capabilities), and get all their equipment to said location. They’re running late, not early, and Dean would know that if he wasn’t so dazzled by the stupid bright lights and jingling machines noises. “I’ll go back to the hotel and get our things. You take a look around for places to take it.”

            Dean raises his eyebrow. “Getting kind of bossy there, Kid.”

            Sam nearly snaps something about how it’s Dean that’s acting like a kid, but he holds his tongue. This environment does bad things to him, makes him into someone he doesn’t care like being. Instead, he thinks of the things he loves about Dean, smiles, and says, “Sorry. How would you like to do this?”

            Dean shakes his head. “It sounded fine. Just didn’t want my girlfriend thinking he can order me around.”

            “Outside the bedroom,” says Sam even though it makes him feel shy to say in public.

            Dean sticks his tongue out sheepishly, not refuting the charge. “Meet me back here in thirty.”

            Sam nods, turns to leave only to have his arm snagged by Dean’s hand. He’s confused by the gesture and by the expression on Dean’s face and then by the way that Dean pulls him into his arms. He looks up, searching for the answer in Dean’s face, finding a kiss instead, a gentle one, Dean’s lips cushiony soft. “Be safe, okay?”

            Monarch butterflies flap away in Sam’s stomach as he realizes that Dean is concerned about his safety, that this is a demonstration of his affection. It may be as close to an “I love you” as he ever hears from Dean. He savors the feeling of warmth in his heart and around his shoulders, savors the sweet green of Dean’s eyes and the way his tongue licks nervously at his own lip. It’s overwhelming to love this much.

            “Okay,” he promises.

 

            Giselle has long legs and delicate fingers. She often keeps her hair in a high bun to accentuate her neck, both long and delicate. When her eyes aren’t black, they’re a honey-colored brown. Giselle has spent so long in her current vessel that she forgets that her beautiful features are borrowed. Over the years, she’s gotten so accustomed to the reactions her appearance gets, has used it so often to manipulate others to her will, that the devil’s trap is hardly necessary because it’s taken five solid minutes for her to even realize that leaving the vessel is an option.

            Her contact sold her out to hunters. She can hardly blame Frederico, he’s a demon after all, and that’s what they do. She blames herself for this; obviously she’s gotten lax with maintaining her connections. If she survives this, she intends to remedy that problem.

            The older one with the scowling handsome face guards the door, but judging from his posture, he’s also ready to jump to the aid of the younger one with the girlish hair, the one who has eyes as cold as any demon’s.

            “My friend has a question for you.”

            “A question I’m only too happy to answer,” says Giselle. She’s surprised, though, because this should be an exorcism not an inquisition. He’s slipped up, letting her know that there is a negotiation to be made. Deal-making is more a part of her than the skin she’s worn for centuries. “Though, the sigils are a bit overkill. I’m sure an arrangement for information could be made easily and without the theatrics.”

            Her interrogator smiles joylessly. “It is overkill, but you don’t know why yet.” He’s feet away from her and he crouches just outside the trap, hands locking together. “I have a talent that you probably haven’t heard of before. I can kill you, not just send you back to hell, without any spells or words or weapons. Do you believe me?”

            She frowns. She does believe him. She can tell, though, that he is going to demonstrate anyway, whether she believes him or not. “Will it hurt?” she asks.

            Again the smile without a trace of happiness. “Not the human you’re inside.” He raises his hand and she braces herself. No amount of preparation could have lessened the pain she feels. She’s being ripped away from the vessel, pulled in different directions, feels herself breaking into pieces, snippets of personality and feeling and thought scattering. She’s losing herself and through it all is tremendous searing pain, like burning alive.

            When she returns to her host body, the scream she’s making hurts her ears. Out of breath and terrified, she whimpers. “Please. Please, I don’t like pain.”

            “We’re going to free your vessel tonight, Demon, but it’s your choice what happens to you when we do that. Answer truthfully and you’ll be exorcised.”

            Giselle doesn’t want to lose the human body, feels like it would be dying too, and then to have to return to hell, that’s worse. She loves this world, loves its gullible toadies with their desperation for money and love and power. She’s spent so many years building herself an empire here in Vegas. She can’t have it stripped away from her.

            “I can answer truthfully, but are you sure you want to perform an exorcism on this lady? She’s been through so much over the years; I can’t promise she’d survive.”

            “Then she’ll die with her soul intact,” says the interrogator.

            Giselle tries desperately not to glare at the man. She doesn’t want to appear angry, wants to appear friendly and helpful. “I understand the sentiment, but do you really want her death on your hands?”

Wrong step. The long-haired teenager laughs. “Everyone is always asking me that!”

            The other hunter, the one by the door reacts to the laugh, but she can’t identify how. He shifts his feet and brings up his forefinger and thumb to his own lips. It is pivotal for her to figure out what they want. Figure out what someone wants and you have power over them. “And how do you feel about that?” she asks the lookout.

            In a second, her atoms are scurrying again, the pain is slicing into her, and she struggles to stay inside her shell, her home. More quickly than the last time, her torturer stops, dropping her back down in her human body.

            Again she’s crying out as she returns, but it’s not clear how since the air in her lungs feels like smoke. “No! Stop!” she cries.

            “You don’t talk to him. And your time for asking questions is done. You are going to answer now and if I think you’re lying or telling any half-truths, I will end your existence completely.”

            It’s embarrassing how her body shakes at the threat. All her careful stoicism gone before this whelp of a human. “Then ask me, because I’ll tell you the truth, but I want your word!” His raised eyebrow tells her how infrequently he must hear that from demons. She explains herself. “We demons are all about pacts. If you promise not to kill me, I’ll give you whatever dire secret is worth so much to you!”

            He shrugs. “I promise.” His lackadaisical attitude does not assure her, but nonetheless, he gestures for the other one to ask his question.

            The hunter walks towards her. It’s awkward, the walk, and at first she thinks it’s his bowed legs but then she spies an erection. Only years of training keep her from smiling at the realization. Well, lust is one of the easiest desires to manipulate. She wonders if the desire is for her, the boy, or the torture. She attempts to construct multiple offers for each, though her brain is functioning so much slower after the pain.

            “I want to know where I can find the yellow-eyed demon.”

            There are few things she’d expected to hear as little as that, yet as he says it, it makes perfect sense. Pieces click into places. She looks at the long-haired hunter. “You’re one of Azazel’s kids.”

            The frost gaze vanishes, is replaced by pure shock. He looks about fourteen standing there gaping and she would wonder how she could ever be afraid of such a child, but she knows all too well how deceiving looks can be. “What?” he asks.

            The man who asked the question looks at his comrade (lover?).

            “Azazel’s kids, the ones he gives part of himself to. The army that he’s growing.”

            The boy’s face is now white and she sees that he didn’t know some, maybe all of what she’s saying.

            “Army?” he stutters out, looks as though someone has just punched him in his reproductive organs. “No.”

            Giselle gambles. “You should console your Love,” she says to the hunter who had asked her the question. “This is very bad news for him.”

            The man looks back and forth between her and the boy, then seems to see the wisdom of her words, steps towards him to offer comfort.

            She allows a small smile. Even at her worst, tortured and afraid, she is still such an excellent judge of human character.

            “You okay?” she hears him ask.

            “No, but that’s not what’s important now.” The teenager sets a hand on his lover’s shoulder, just a tap, a signal that he’s still focused on his task. It would be heart-warming to her if she had a heart.

            Intent once again, the long-haired hunter steps past his lover, glares at her when he asks, “But you didn’t answer his question.”

            “The last time I saw Azazel was a decade or more ago…” she begins to explain, but he interrupts.

            “Not Azazel! The yellow-eyed demon!”

            Confused, she shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

            He pulls at her again, tugs her from the body and she’s half in and half out of the human Giselle’s mouth. She can’t feel the body, can only feel the pain. This time it’s like she’s slammed back into the vessel when he stops. Tears fall onto her cheeks, onto her chest. “I don’t know what you want!” she screams.

            “Where is the yellow-eyed demon?” he demands, voice fiery instead of icy.

            “I can tell you where he was ten years ago but that’s it!”

            “Not Azazel!” he yells, jaw jutting out like a raging caveman, and stepping towards her as though to strike.

            She trembles. “Azazel is the only demon with yellow eyes that I’ve ever heard of!”

            When seasons change, it’s gradual. The leaves change color or grow or fall, taking weeks and months to complete a cycle. The hunter’s reaction is perhaps as drastic of a change as the seasons, but it happens in a moment, one blink of the eye, and he’s no longer angry, no longer cruel, doesn’t show any more signs of confusion. His face is a deep well of pain and his hand grabs at his chest, around his heart. She wonders if he’s having a heart attack, sure that he must be but suspicious of the timing.

            “Sammy!” calls out the other hunter. He rushes to the boy who either collapses into or is caught by his arms.

            “No, no, Chal.”

            “Chal?” asks the other man. “What’s this got to do with Chal?”

            The boy, Sam, looks lost, tear-glazed eyes staring into his lover’s. “Dean…” he says, reaching up and stroking the scruff of his lover’s cheek. “Oh God, Dean.”

            “What the hell, Sammy? What’s going on?” When Sam’s silent devastation continues, he begins to shake the boy. “Talk to me, dammit. What’s going on?”

            “Need to get out of here, Dean. I need… I need to talk to Chal.”

Dean nods, wraps Sam’s arm over his shoulder, supporting his weight. They move to the door.

            Giselle keeps quiet, thinks that maybe her presence will be forgotten. There’s no such luck because with only the slightest of look from the tall young hunter, she loses her ability to think, move, remember. There is only pain and blackness.

 

            Sleeping is hard to do alone now that she’s gotten accustomed to John in the bed. Chal isn’t bitter about his leaving, understands that it’s part of his job, but she misses him more acutely than she misses Sam. It’s strange to her how little time he has been in her life and yet managed to carve such a large niche for himself in it. Since she’s slept so poorly the two days that he’s been gone, she’s trying to nap. The bed is too large and the light is too bright, even with the blinds down. When the phone rings, she welcomes it; the unsuccessful nap only making her that much more aware of her own exhaustion.

            She brightens when she sees that it’s Sam.

            “Hello?” she asks.

            “Chal,” a breathy version of Sam’s voice says. “Chal, I need you to stop anything else you’re doing and listen very carefully.”

            Immediately, she’s alert, eyes looking to her emergency bag. She can be on the road in 120 seconds if he needs her. “I understand.”

            “Is John Winchester my father?”

            There it is, the world exploding. Somehow knowing it was coming doesn’t stop it from making her stomach drop nor keep her heart from breaking. “Sam…” she starts, but she doesn’t know how to finish. It doesn’t matter anyway, because he screams. She pulls the phone from her ear, stares at it in horror. She hears glass breaking, the thump of objects colliding with other objects.

            When the sound finally abates, she begins to speak. “I took you from the nursery after Azazel killed your mother, before she burst into flames. I had to. I couldn’t let them carry out their plans for you. The angels, they don’t care who you are. They just want to use you…”

            “And my father?” he asks.

She bites her lip, struggles to keep tears back, presses the cold back of her shaking hand onto her warm face. “He… he saved your brother.”

            “Dean.”

            “Dean,” she confirms.

            He yells again, this time more briefly, before snarling at her. “You made me think they were dead.”

            “I didn’t want you to find them before you were ready. I knew that John was trying to find Azazel. If he found him before you were ready, he would have killed you, all three of you.”

            “All the Winchesters,” he says, voice breaking. She knows he’s crying and that’s when her own tears break, following his example. “You have ruined everything. You’ve ruined my life.”

            “I was doing what I thought was best for your safety,” Chal says weakly.

            “You were wrong!” he screams. “Sixteen years and I don’t even know who I am! You’ve been lying to me this whole time! And Dean… Oh God. Dean is my brother. My brother, Chal! Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

            She doesn’t, but she keeps quiet, hopes he can get his rage out now so that they can work through this.

            “How am I supposed to tell him!? This is going to kill him, Chal! This is killing me! How could you?”

            There’s another crashing sound and then a long period of silence. She waits, one minute, two, maybe even three, before she says, “I have never regretted my actions, not even now. I have loved you and given everything to protect you and no matter how much anger you feel now, I don’t regret it.”

            Another long stretch of silence, long enough to make her wonder if he’s hung up. She looks at the phone, sees the seconds still counting up on the length of the call. When he speaks, it’s quiet and angry and sad. “I don’t want to see you ever again. Do you hear me? Never.”

            This may be the moment when Chal finally loses the last of her grace. It seems that any part of her that held hope and power and beauty dies right then. She holds the phone to her ear even after he’s hung up, after her arm starts to ache. She clutches it with sweaty palm and covers it with the tears that run down her cheek. This is worse than falling from Heaven.

 

            Dean really hadn’t wanted to leave Sam alone, not for a moment, after whatever the fuck had happened during the demon interrogation. One second, Sam had been glorious, sexy and powerful, and then Dean was sure he was gonna faint, face white and eyes bursting with tears. Then there had been the quiet ride back to the hotel where the only words that had Sam had spoken were that he needed to get to the hotel and needed to call Chal. He’s never been so worried about anyone in his life, well, maybe he’s about as worried as the time that he was sure Dad was gonna bleed to death after a werewolf attack, but that’s some serious shit too.

            He finally gets back to the Days Inn, carries the bag of burgers and fries that stank up the Impala to their room after checking the room number on the key card envelope. He’s way too worried to care about numbers right now. He just hopes that Sam doesn’t look any worse than he did, hopes that he’s not going to have to call an ambulance or something, hopes that it really is just that the kid needs to eat to replenish lost demon-zapping energy.

            he hotel room is demolished. Every bit of furniture or electronic smashed, wood and metal and glass everywhere.  

            “Sammy!” Dean calls out. In a panic, he tears through the rubble, but there’s no sign of anything but destruction. “Sammy!” he yells as loud as he can. Whoever fucked up the room had done so thoroughly. He has to push shit aside just to get to the bathroom. He pushes open the door, medicine cabinet smashed, toilet seat ajar, but, also with a piece of paper atop it. He snatches it up. If it’s ransom, he’ll pay it. It doesn’t matter how much money they want.

            In Sam’s stupid all-caps handwriting, are the words: **Sorry. Don’t follow me.**

            He stares at the note, then at the bathroom. He flips the paper over, hoping there’s another message. In a way, there is. The other side of the paper is the cover of _Hunters_.

            Within two minutes, he’s back in the Impala revving her engine as he drives like a maniac all the while chanting Sam’s name. He searches all night, checks roads for hitchhiker’s, asks around at truck stops, finally breaks down and calls Chal, hopes that she’s heard from him, but she doesn’t answer her phone.

            At dawn, he’s pulled off to the side of the road near the city limits sign. He puts his head down on the Impala’s dashboard and cries big monster tears.

            “Where are you, Sammy?”

 


End file.
